Brush With the Hitman
by Megan666
Summary: Follow the story of Rachel as she encounters the original assassin. Rating may change to M later on
1. Part 1

There are many ways to describe my brush with the Hitman. The police say that I am an incredibly lucky girl to have met the myth, face to face, to have talked to him- and to have lived to tell the tale. My family and friends say that it must have been terrifying to have been so close to him and that he could have killed me without remorse in the blink of an eye and vanish as he so does. I've been called brave, a hero, and honored.

But really, it was none of those things.

The Hitman chose me. Protected me. He saw innocence in my eyes and made the decision to help me leave safely, to help me as no one has ever helped him. He wanted to protect and conserve the innocence within me before I lost it too early, just like he did. He saw himself in me.

This is the story of when I met the Hitman, and of when my perspective on everything has changed.

* * *

My friend, Parker, had called in earlier, asking me to take over his job tonight at his father's Waikiki Lounge.

"One last time," he pleaded. "You will get the money, I promise."

He explained that he wanted to help his girlfriend Marissa through a rough time she's going through, but I knew he was just going to do drugs at her place. I agreed to do it anyway- I needed a way to pay for my drugs too, and I currently had no job.

His father, who is clearly obsessed with anything island themed, had opened the

Waikiki Lounge a few years back, and the family is still struggling to pay off the debt that came with financing it. As the owner, he has also built his family's home on the lot so he can 'live an island paradise on a lower budget.'

He is familiar with me taking his son's place when his son 'turned sick,' and as his wife left him a few months ago, he doesn't mind my (only) female presence.

So as I walked into the main bar where he works, he looked up and he smiled at me, his deer-in-headlights-eyes shining.

"Rachel, hi!" he shouted, waving his arms. I forced a smile at him. "I see Parker called."

I nodded my head. "Where am I tonight?"

"Housekeeping," he responded, making me smile even harder. No wonder Parker chose this night to fake sick.

I put my bag down behind the bar and made my way to the storage room, sliding my phone in my back pocket. I entered the smelly room and got the maid's cart and rolled it out, closing the door behind me.

"Ben Franklin," I heard a muffled, yet deep, voice say, to which Parker's father accepted. I shook my head and began my run.

* * *

"Can't you just stay a little bit longer?" asked the slurred voice of a drunk man.

I pushed the cart out of his room. "No, sir, I cannot." I looked back inside at the woman on his bed, giggling. "You have enough company. Goodnight."

I closed the door behind me and sighed. I'm only 15, I thought to myself. I shouldn't have to put up with half naked women on beds and drunk men all night.

I sucked it up as I went to go knock on another door but stopped suddenly as I heard the sound of a bus approach. I turned my head to see a beat bus stop in the middle of the apartments.

Ever heard of a parking lot? I inwardly thought.

I watched in bemusement as a group of 6 nuns get off the bus and struggled to hold in my bewilderment. What are nuns doing at the Waikiki Lounge? Blessing it in all its ridiculousness and misfortunes?

I grew up in a religious family and was taken to church every Sunday ever since the doctors let me leave the hospital after I was born. I was always the troublemaker child- stealing kids' blocks and playthings in the children's area and yelling at the priest. You see, I was never religious myself. After my brother committed suicide when I was 6 because of the taunting he got from everyone- family included- for being gay convinced me that there was no god, and ever since then I stopped going to church. So I wasn't exactly what one would call 'one with religion.'

But when those nuns took off their robes to reveal stripper clothing and weapons strapped to their bodies, and as one nun handed a bazooka to the one in front, I knew something wasn't exactly right.

I was watching from the second story on the building to their right as the one in front aimed her bazooka at the shack in front of her. She mumbled something quick to herself and pulled the trigger.

I was too engulfed in my initial disbelief and amusement to actually take cover, so as she shot the bazooka and the place blew, I flew a few feet backwards.

Debris and dust went flying everywhere, making me choke. I tried to muffle my insistent coughing so as to not catch the attention of the stripper nuns and crawled to the edge of the walkway. They turned to talk to each other before dispersing. They all went left and only one stayed behind. Military men in black bullet proof vests and getup ran out of the middle of nowhere to meet her.

"Follow me," she said ever so calmly, strutting to the stairs.

My hand went to my back pocket and patted around, feeling for my phone. When my hand wasn't met with the familiar feel of my flip phone, I looked around- only to find it in half near the housekeeping cart.

"Fucking flip shits," I muttered, making a mental note to tell my mom this so that I may get an iPhone. Or a Nokia.

It took my brain a few seconds to realign and realize that the stripper nun was walking up the stairs towards me with her military detail and I hauled ass. I ran to the end of the hallway and into an indented corner to the right.

If I stayed here hidden, I figured, they would walk right by me and I could escape.

Slowing my breath down to barely audible and making sure I was well hidden, I focused my hearing on what was behind me. I heard the heavy footsteps of the military men stop at the top of the stairs and a door open. The voice of the drunk man I remember not even a minute ago began shouting obscenities at the men, and the sound of a gunshot was heard, followed by a thump.

I probably would too, I thought, almost forgetting that they had guns and were opening fire on anyone.

A woman screamed until her scream was silenced by another gunshot and more footsteps, followed by another round. I peeked my head out a tiny bit to see a military man shooting a few rounds into the dead drunk to make sure that he was dead.

Overkill, I thought as the stripper nun walked up the stairs finally. Her obnoxious heels clicked loudly as they closed in on my position. She began barking out order to the men, commanding that they search the area for the body.

They did all of this for one person? I asked myself in disbelief. That person must've been hard to kill otherwise.

My heart beat faster as they turned the corner, not even knowing I was there.

"Look for 47's body," she demanded. "And if it's too charred then just look for the barcode."

47's body? Barcode? What kind of person was this?

The woman stayed there, a few feet away from the laundry basket, cocking her hips to one side and looked to her left and right. The men disappeared into a charred doorway on their right.

My eyes caught movement and I looked towards the laundry basket, whose top moved ever so gently. I barely contained a gasp that floated past my lips as a tall, bald man stepped out, donning a fancy black yet dusty suit. His dirty face was set into a scowl as he crept up behind the woman, something glinting in his hands, and all I could think was how a man of his size (surely over 6 feet tall and built) could move so silently when he began to choke the woman.

No, I told myself as I squinted to get a better look. He is using a wire in his hand to wrap around the stripper nun's neck to choke her.

Before I could say or do anything-or before I could decide WHAT to say or do, or even if I should-the man had killed her. He dragged her body using the wire still around her throat towards me. My heart beat faster again as he stopped by the laundry basket not even 5 feet away from me, unwrapped the wire from her neck and placed it in his pocket, reached down to pick her up and placed her inside the laundry basket, shutting her dead body inside.

"Wow..." I thought to myself, witnessing my first murder.

The man with the fastest reflexes I've ever seen took his pistol out of one of his jacket pockets and pointed it towards me. My hands went up in instinct, showing him I meant no harm. My eyes widened as I looked down the barrel of his gun, recognized a silencer, and into the man's eyes. His stone cold, bright blue eyes glared at me in anger before turning into a question: why the fuck are you here?

"What are you doing here?" His lips met his eyes as he took me in- red long sleeved shirt, dark green short shorts, red converse- and noticed that I didn't work here. He probably took me for a guest, but that still didn't explain why I was huddled in the corner.

"I, um, hid," I responded. He still hasn't put the gun down and I made an effort to stare at it, hinting that he should. "They were coming my way."

After a second of thought he lowered his gun and placed it back on the holster in his shirt and I took that as my queue to lower my hands and let out my held breath. He looked at me once again-taking in my brown hair, hazel eyes, and freckles- and something changed in his eyes. Almost as if they...softened.

The sound of a group of military men running brought him back to reality. He looked over the edge of the railing from where he stood, his dark and bushy eyebrows furrowing, and reached his hand out to grab my arm.

"Come with me," he said softly, tugging on my forearm and dragging me behind him. All I could do was force my legs to bring me forward as I gazed at his grip on my arm. He had in black fingerless leather gloves which were firmly strapping his large and worn 'farmer's hands.' He used these to kill somebody.

I looked up to see that we had come by the stairs that the stripper nun walked up. He turned around and put his other hand on my back, forcing me into a kneel.

"Stay low, do as I say, and make like I do," he whispered in that deep, monotone voice of his that both commanded my attention and drew a chill down my spine. I nodded in response, gulping. "Do not be afraid," he added as an afterthought.

Don't be afraid, I told myself. Of stripper nuns with bazookas out to kill someone, and the person protecting me from them has also killed someone?

He turned his head the look at the courtyard and that's when I knew. When I saw that barcode tattooed on the back of his bald head, that's when I knew that this man had experience and was worth the government blowing up an Inn to find.

He narrowed his eyes, listening to the guards talk and watching them, his hand still on my forearm. I stared at that barcode. That woman, what did she call him? It was a letter, wasn't it? No, no, was it a number?

I scanned the barcode, no pun intended, trying to remember the sequence of numbers in my mind, until I saw the last two numbers.

The woman had called him 47.

"47..." I whispered to myself, not knowing I said it aloud. His head instantly snapped in my direction, and he looked confused.

"What did you just call me?"

"The woman-you know, the one you killed-called you 47," I explained. He turned back to the guards. "Is that your name, just 47?" I paused. "What's your real name-"

"Shh," he whispered, putting his finger to his lips. His eyes told me to not fuck around, so I shut up.

The guards dispersed and headed in different directions, each taking point in one area of the courtyard- but no one near us. This man, 47, took this as his cue and began walking quickly and low to the ground, and I did the same following behind him. He took us to cover by the bus and stopped, peaking out around the other end. I craned my neck to see what he saw and I did not like what I did.

There was a dead body a few feet away from us- a civilian. Shot in the face, and in the chest. Overkill, yet again. He was young looking too, and had a look of shock permanently etched into his face. I realized something- that these people were taking no chances and killing mercilessly, no matter their age and the fact that they weren't bald with a barcode on the back of their head. They were a witness, and therefore a liability. And if I were to step out, they'd kill me too.

I needed to think differently. I needed to get out of here, and this man would help me do so. 'Make like I do,' he told me. So what was he doing?

His back was hunched but his shoulders were up, ready to attack or run. I fixed my posture. His feet were heel first into the ground to promote silence, so I fixed that. His body was tense, but not too tense, so I fixed that.

A military man walked away from his post, allowing us to slip by and hide behind some bamboo shit sticking out of the ground. I held my breath as we snuck past the dead body, trying to keep my eyes off of it.

He did a quick recon of the surrounding area and then turned back to me. "Wait here," he whispered. "I need to do something."

"Can I come with you?" I asked.

His eyes flickered. "No, you have to wait here until I finish what I need to do."

"Will you come back?"

He paused for a moment, analyzing my face with the ever so slightest look of sadness on his face. He nodded his head yes and let loose his grip on my forearm.

He looked around once again before bolting silently to the next bamboo thing, and one had to wonder how such a big man like him was as silent and unseen as he was.

I rubbed the spot where he gripped my hand, and I still felt his grip there linger. I had to reassure myself that he'd come back before peaking my head out the tiniest to look around too. Two guards guarded this one area, and I saw in the distance another stripper nun.

Was he going to kill this one too? I could only wonder as I watched him disappear from cover to cover, making his way over to her. Trying to focus on silencing my breathing still didn't deter me from the fact that he was going to kill her too.

As he took cover inside the little outdoor bar that she occasionally went to for a sip of her drink, a slight chill ran down my spine. 'He kills women' echoed in my head, reminding me that he isn't a man of total mercy. 'But he saved you' combated another voice.

I watched him put something in her drink before making his way back to me.

Focusing on the woman, I watched her walk back to the bar for another sip of her drink. My heart beat fast as I waited for the reaction and soon enough my heart got what it wanted- the woman clutched at her throat and staggered for a bit before collapsing on the ground, dead.

47, her killer, made his way back to me and grabbed my arm again, watching the guards.

"Hey," one of them said, pointing to her. "What happened here?"

They both jogged over to her and bent down, trying to figure out what happened.

The man with a number for a name dragged me past them to a door, to which he let go of my arm to pick lock. I stood by him like a dummy, not knowing what to do, and looked at his handiwork. But he worked too fast for me to see and soon enough had the door opened in no time, once again grabbing me and pulling me through. I closed the door behind us as quietly as I could.

"What do you mean you can't reach them?" an angry woman asked. 47 put his hand on my stomach, stopping me from moving- a silent 'wait here'- and moved under them behind cover. "Try again."

Static, and then a man: "Strike team one, come in strike team one. Nothing but static, miss."

"Hmm. Alright, keep up the good work soldier." Then fading clicking heels.

I almost scoffed at her assertiveness, but then 47 moved. Over the counter he slid with ease. It took only a few seconds until I heard faint choking sounds-which stopped shortly after it began. The dragging of a body. The opening of a lid. The thump, and then the closing of a lid.

I closed my eyes to imagine myself somewhere else besides here. Somewhere where I wasn't a bystander to murder, and, in fact, I was having a good time. Oh, why did I have to take his shift?

I opened my eyes to see 47 staring at me I'm confusion, and then he held out his hand. Through the shift in his body I could see a wire sticking out of his shirt. I stared at it.

47 shook his hand a bit, getting my attention again. Tentatively, I reached out and his large, gloved hand grabbed mine and pulled me to him and through a door and another.

We moved past two guards by a car and behind a fence where the garbage was kept. He pushed me gently into the corner and motioned for me to stay as he turned around the corner, hesitated, then left.

I almost wanted to yell out no. No, stop, help, psycho! What was I even doing, running along with a man who forced me to stay in certain areas while he went out and killed others? This is accessory to murder! I could be tried and found guilty, sent to prison to rot!

I should just leave now, call to one of the guards to help and maybe I could-

no, I couldn't. I took a breath of air in to calm myself down. No, I couldn't do that- they'd kill me and I know it. No, I told myself. Be strong, for now. Tell the cops that he had a gun to your head and you were forced to.

I silently agreed to myself until I heard a guard yell "Hey!"

My heart skipped a beat. They found me, and now they're going to kill me, and I will never get to see my family again and tell them I love them or have any more weed.

"Look over here!"

I silently walked to the end of the wooden fence as I heard footsteps trailing away from me. I gained enough courage to peer out, only to find that a guard was maybe 15 feet away from me and looking directly at me.

A hand covered my mouth tightly and an arm swooped around my neck, resting on my chest. The man pulled me back into cover, holding me tight against him. I gasped with what breath I could get and put my hands up to the one covering my mouth, trying to pry it off, but the arm on my chest swatted them away and held me tighter.

"Shh sh," I heard a voice whisper into my ear, and instantly recognized it as 47.

My body was still tense but I quit struggling and listened as I heard footsteps approach.

In this moment time stretched into infinity. The footsteps were slow and

precise, and I can almost imagine the guard-with all his curiosity-narrowing his eyes as he approached. The hard body I was pressed up against was cool as a cucumber- his muscles weren't tense and his breathing was calm. He must've been in a situation like this a million times before, doing whatever it is that he does.

"Kyle, get over here! We need assistance!" I heard a distant voice yell, angry.

The footsteps stopped approaching but did not move away.

"Kyle, goddamnit!"

After a second hesitation, the guard jogged away. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he muttered.

47 took his hand off my mouth but his other remained as he looked out beyond our cover and watched the man disappear. Moving his hand to once again grab my arm, he dragged me to the nearest door and began pick locking this one too. I looked behind us the see a group of men and one slutty nun huddled over a body on the ground and marveled the man next to me.

Once he picked the door, the slight push of his hand on my back forced me through it as he turned and aimed his gun at something behind us. I heard the silent 'woosh' of his silenced bullet as it traveled through the air and hit the target.

The sound of the explosion made me gasp and look, but he pushed me back through the door and closed it behind us.

He must've blew the gas station, I thought to myself. Suddenly I wanted to be very very far away from this man and I shook slightly, terrified.

Making me hunch again, we hid behind a car. This time, I let him to the peaking-around-corners thing as I listened and shook to myself.

"Secure the area," another woman said as a group of men uttered a few 'yes ma'ams' under their breaths and moved , I thought, how many of them are there? I thought back to the group of them standing in front of the apartments in the courtyard before they blew it to shreds and mentally counted- 7. There were 7 of them. And how many had he killed so far? 4. More than half.

I offered him a silent, sick 'way to go' in my head as he brought us to the cornfield that resided in the back of Waikiki Lounge. We stayed low and silent, moving along in the cornfield.

We moved past the sound of static and footsteps, which I took for military men, and I held my breath again. Adrenaline was coursing through my body and my mind kept repeating the same line over and over again, even if I knew it probably wasn't true: 'We're going to get caught, we're going to get caught.'

From what I could see of 47-even though he was only inches away- he had his head turned to the left, watching stripper nun number 5 walk into a small cabin.

We waited before a small opening in the cornfield until the guards on either end of the cornfield looked away. Silently bolting to the other side, 47 turned to me again, giving me the 'wait here' signal. I almost rolled my eyes, but instead I watched him.

He made his way to the side of the cabin where the generator was, almost making me scream- he was totally exposed, out in the open!

His muscles flexed through his shirt as he tore off a piece of the generator, earning a silent 'wow' from me, and attached it to a pipe going into the cabin. He placed one hand on the lever and listened hard-focusing, waiting-until he pulled down on the lever.

He bolted back to my position as the sound if electricity could be heard-and smelled-and the woman inside screamed until she collapsed. Somehow, he managed to electrocute her, I believe.

With his hand on my elbow he guided me through the cornfield until we came upon more movement.

"Come on out, 47," a woman taunted. Were we caught? "I promise to make your death painless."

I only ignored the dumb cliché the woman used as I realized that she was only a few feet away. Had to be, by the way her voice sounded. Placing his hand on my shoulder for a fleeting moment, I stood-or hunched-still as he left me again.

Could he even find his way back to me? I asked myself as I soon heard the sound of choking. I mean, when you think about it, I'm in the middle of-

"Hey, what are you doing?"

My heart stopped. This time, it stopped. My eyes widened and tears already formed in my eyes.

I slowly turned around to find a guard pointing his rather big gun at me, an unhappy look on his face.

"What the fuck you doin' all the way out here by yourself?"

Shut up! I yelled at him in my head. Shut up, shut up!

Then, a smile formed on his face, and he puffed from the cigar in his mouth. His beady little eyes laughed down at me and I took one quick look at his disheveled appearance.

"Oooh, yeah, man," he muttered. "Am I going to have my fun with you."

A tear from realization about what was next to come trailed down my cheek and I closed my eyes.

I heard the gear on his body shift and he began to bend down towards me, only to be stopped by what sounded like a kick. I was about to open my eyes when I heard the familiar sound of gagging and decided not to, and in fact covered my ears to block out the sound of death.

This isn't happening, this shit just ISN'T happening. I mean, doesn't he ever get cramps in his hands from this bullshit?

A soft hand on my shoulder gave me permission to uncover my ears and open my eyes, but I would not look at him. Instead, I looked at the ground and played in the dirt with my finger, making swirls, almost ashamed of what was about to transpire.

His hand went to my armpit as he slowly helped me up in almost a way of understanding and comfort.

We were standing now as he led me by a hand on my back to the edge of the cornfield before another opening with a chicken coup and a warehouse. A guard stood by the chicken coup and left after a few moments, walking towards the warehouse.

The slight sound of moving fabric graces my right ear as I saw his silenced pistol in the peripheral vision of my right eye. His leathered hand tightened his grip on the gun and he slowly pulled down on the trigger.

I couldn't even see what he was shooting at, but after I heard the same 'woosh' of the bullet leaving the gun at so-and-so miles an hour, I also heard the sound of something heavy falling, followed by a woman's scream.

"Seven," I whispered, knowing he killed the last one. I sighed.

Over the sound of men rushing to the dead woman I turned to look at his face. He was already staring at me in slight bewilderment, and slight confusion.

'Yes, I counted,' I wanted to say, but I didn't.

He stood up and placed his silenced gun back in his holster and walked out of the cornfield, towards the warehouse.

In my own confusion I followed him and looked out the edge of the cornfield to find him walking toward a little setup of computer screens over a sheet. He picked up a phone and put it to his ear.

"Mission failed," I heard him say, trying to keep his rage in. From here I could see him slightly smile. "Travis."

I heard shouting from the other side of the phone from far away and smiled myself. He sure pissed this Travis guy off real good. He walked back towards me and guided me with a hand on my back out of the side of one of the cornfields and to a car. Luckily, the driver's window was down, so he was easily able to unlock the car and get in the driver's seat. He played around with some wires under the wheel until the car started and the engine revved. What did they teach this guy in school?

"I will bring you to your home," he said, closing the driver's door.

I got in the passenger seat and gulped. "Oh, ugh, okay," I managed to say. "You, um, killed a lot of people back there."

He looked at me funny. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because if I didn't they would have killed me, and you."

"Oh," I replied. "Valid reasoning."

I gave him the directions back to my place which wasn't far from here at all,

hence why I walked here almost every day. The 5 minute car ride was ridiculously awkward, more for me than for him. I stuttered my directions and said 'ugh' enough times he'd think I'd have the IQ of below average.

Once we arrived at my home, he stopped. "Stay safe," he advised.

"I...will," I replied, getting out of the car. "Thanks for, um, coming back all those times and, like, helping me get out of there."

He nodded in response.

"So...what do I tell people?"

"The truth," he said instantly. "I should be off now."

But I have so many questions, I thought. "Will I ever see you again?"

"Yes, that may seem possible...to you."

And with that, I stepped back to let him drive off and away from me forever.

* * *

I have many regrets of that night. I regret not being more careful. I regret not showing care to the bodies. I regret getting spotted in the cornfield, and I regret not fighting back. I regret believing that I should just leave and call for help, possibly getting him killed in the process.

But, I do not regret taking Parker's shift that night. This...happening has reevaluated my perception on life and how things work. I quit doing drugs and made an effort in school. I told my parents I loved them more often and I helped around the house. I associated myself with new friends and volunteered to help Parker's family clean up the mess.

I even began to notice the little things- a bug on the grass that I took caution to avoid crushing, how people walked, how they looked when they were thinking, and I even began a pastime of imagining the blueprints to buildings and possible exit or escape points.

This man, without teaching me anything, has taught me more than my parents or the teachers in my school whose job it was to teach. This man whose name is a number came into my life for less than an hour and out of it just like that.

But has he ever truly left?

Or is he out there, watching? Watching everyone and everything?

Is he...with me?

Yes, I thought, he is.

My brush with the Hitman will never be forgotten.

* * *

**A/N: Okay so I know I have unfinished stories and I will try to get to them but this just popped into my head at midnight last night and I stayed up until 2am writing it on my phone.**

**I just played Hitman: Absolution and I just loved it. This is the first Hitman game I've ever played. I further looked into the story of Hitman and I just LOVE the franchise.**

**I was able to make a connection to one of the games where 47 said, "Yes, that may seem possible...to you."**

**I also tried to make Rachel similar to Victoria. Albeit a year older, they have similarities: brown hair, hazel eyes, freckles. Rachel even said a few things similar to Victoria in the game, if you caught that (that's what drove 47 to do what he did). I also tried to show Rachel going through changes as well, like quitting drugs. The only reason she isn't freaking out over this whole thing more than she did is because she has seen and been through a lot, making her cold and strong in a way. **

**I also tried to get 47 to remain in character. Please review and tell me how you think I did! It would mean a lot 3 Also if I should continue with this story (have Rachel meet the Hitman again) or if I should do multiple different stories (like different characters meeting the Hitman). If you would like the second option message me with ideas or with your personalized character to meet the Hitman.**

**Yes I took this down after I posted it because the edited version wouldn't show up.**


	2. Part 2

-7 months after the Waikiki Lounge incident-

I still think about him sometimes. I wonder where he is, and what he is doing. If he is killing, if he is saving. I wonder what goes on in his mind as he does these things, or if he doesn't think about it and just does. He's even appeared in my dreams a few times, guiding me away from horror and death.

In truth, he is my saviour. His face will never fade from my memory, and he will always hold a place in my heart.

In some sick way, I wonder if he'd be proud of me. I've gotten my grades up from mostly C's to mostly A's. I've even managed to stop drugs entirely with no relapses on my own, a personal achievement. My dad got a promotion at work and always comes home with a smile now. My mom isn't stressed about bills anymore and openly shows her affection to my father. Normally I'd just gag, but I've never seen them kiss- so I smile.

So anyone would say that my life is looking up for me and that I now may even have a future. But, they'd be wrong.

It's only been 7 months and 4 days since I last saw him, but that's all about to change.

* * *

The time is 11am and it's a Sunday. My parents are getting ready to go to church and have broken their habit of asking me if I want to come along. They've finally accepted the fact that I'm an atheist, and I couldn't be happier.

But still, I'm awaken by their hushed whispers and showers. I groggily get out of bed, groaning, and look in my mirror.

It looks like rats have been sucking on my hair all night, I think with a chuckle, grabbing a scrunchie and brushing my hair with my fingers before tying it in a high pony.

I lazily make my way to the bathroom where I brush my teeth and apply deodorant and perfume. One thing I hate most in the world is smelly people, and I myself am no exception.

Exiting the bathroom and pleased with my smell-cherries-I greet my parents in their room.

"Good morning noisy church goers," I say, smiling.

They look up at me, applying their final looks in the mirror. I notice their noses twitch as if smelling my perfume and almost roll their eyes.

"Good morning dear," my dad says, fixing his shirt. My mom, applying lipstick, only mumbles. "I would come over there and kiss you but you wear too much perfume."

"I love the smell of cherries," I whine back, pouting.

My dad chuckles. "And I like clean air." He pinches his nose as he walks past me and I playfully smack his arm. "Meet you downstairs, Donna," he says to my mother. "See you later, Cherry."

"How do I look, dear?" I turn to my mother and take in her mascara and red lipstick. Boy, does she love red lipstick.

"Better than me," I reply.

"Honey, kids in Africa look better than you do in the morning," she retorts, grabbing her bag and walking past me with my mouth open.

"Ouch, mom." I follow them downstairs and open the door for them, gesticulating for them to leave. My dad grabbed the car keys and walked past me, gagging, and my mom kissed me on the forehead.

"Be back soon," she informed me, and I closed the door behind them.

Now, I thought to myself. Should I go back to sleep or should I be productive today?

After thinking for a few moments I shrugged my shoulders and headed to the kitchen where I put a slice of bread in the toaster. Maybe some food will get me going today.

I walk over to the adjacent living room and turn on the TV. The news station pops up and tells us of a fatal hit and run in my area, and I am drawn to the screen as I await the name of the victim: Walter Hyde. No one I know of, and I'm relieved.

A small clicking sound grabs my attention as instinctively my head turns towards the front door when it abruptly stops. My eyes narrow as I look at the door knob to see if it moves and my father steps in, announcing that he forgot something as per usual, but nothing happens.

Blaming it on the wind, I hear the ding from the toaster and walk back to the kitchen, praying that it isn't burnt.

"Yes!" I whisper to myself, silently congratulating myself on my second non-burnt piece of toast in a row.

Smiling at my own foolishness, I got a plate out and set in on the counter. I reached for the toast from the toaster before I was suddenly pulled back to the ground. A large hand covered my mouth and another went around me to pin my arms to my torso.

Instantly, I fought back- kicking, screaming, and trying to get my hands free.

My mind was jostled by a fleeting memory of 47 silencing me, trying to prevent me from getting caught by the guard, and I wondered if this was him.

My heart dropped to my stomach as I realized that this couldn't be him- his hand covered my mouth tightly, but not this tight, and the arm that pinned my wasn't crushing my ribs like it was now. No, I thought, this was someone else.

The man readjusted his grip to cover both my nose and my mouth, blocking off air from entering my lungs. I fought harder with tears in my eyes as I tried to fight off the oncoming blackness, but I wasn't strong and I succumbed to it.

* * *

When I came to, I yawned and tried opening my eyes, but everything was so bright. Wincing by the impact of sudden sharp light, I squinted and waited until my eyes could adjust so that I could look around.

It didn't take me long to remember what happened in the kitchen of my own home and I fearfully asked myself if I've been raped. Resorting to my other senses as I waited for my eyes to adjust, I recognized that I was sitting on a chair. My feet were bound to the legs and my arms were bound to the back. Wiggling them wouldn't work- they were tied on tight. I moved my body and recognized the feel of clothing on me, so I deducted the idea of being violated and wondered if I've been kidnapped.

Could this be related to 47? I wondered to myself, remembering the feel of gloved hands that suffocated me. But anyone could be wearing gloved hands and any nut job could just waltz into my home. Could this be related to the hit and run from earlier, and the suspect was trying to escape and hid in my home?

Finally, my eyes adjusted and I looked around. It was obvious that I was in a concrete room as the familiar color struck out at me. It was cold and I shivered, goosebumps appearing on my skin. Stuck in a cold room in winter, I thought, figures. The only other thing in this room besides myself and air was a guard wearing all black clothing and armour.

He looked at me and turned his head to the side, speaking into and grabbing the communication device on his shoulder. "The girl is awake, sir," he said, never taking his angry eyes off of me. By habit I looked at his hands- he was wearing no gloves.

I licked my lips and tried to moisten my dry mouth. "Hey," I tried. The guard only scowled at me more. "Hi, there. Mind telling me what's going on?"

The guard turned his eyes straight ahead and avoided me. The corners of his mouth slightly turned up as I heard footsteps nearing and I recognized them as high heels. My eyes were trained on the door, waiting for the woman to walk in and hopefully inform me of what is going on, maybe give her a piece of my mind as well.

The door flew open, sending a wave of air my way and blowing my hair back. My eyebrows went up in shock- two more guards walked along with a familiar woman.

The lingerie in the form of a nun's outfit made my heart stop- the stripper nuns! I thought 47 had killed them all?

My lone guard saluted the woman, and the two new ones stood behind me. "At ease," said the woman in a powerful voice. She was black but had surprisingly bright eyes, with a small test tattoo underneath her left eye. She walked right up to me, her large red high heels making too much noise for a shoe, and grabbed my chin so that she could get a better look at me.

I tried to remain unmoved but I couldn't help but feeling like a little bug under her hard gaze. She looked into my eyes and sighed, then looked over my body. My checks blushed with embarrassment as I remembered what I was wearing- a dark purple long sleeved t-shirt with matching purple pants and little pacmans scattered along it.

Well, I thought, at least I'm not a slutty nun.

"What's your name, child?" she asked in her calm, demanding voice- just like 47.

"Rachel," I squeak out. "And Rachel wants to know what she's doing here."

The woman smiled. "You were there that night. That night where it all went to hell. I've lost my entire team to that man, and was left in a coma for months.

That man, who you've happened to spend the night with."

"Well, I had no choice. He was my only way of getting out alive. You were all killing everyone."

"We couldn't leave any witnesses, sweetie. You know, business."

"Business of killing people."

She smiled at that. "Yes. You see, 47 and I- that man, his name is 47- work for a special agency that eliminates dangerous people in the world. It's what we do for a living, him and I-"

"Except he wears a formal suit and you wear, ugh-"

The woman slapped me across the face, wiping clean my sarcastic attitude and replacing it with fear.

Bitch touched me, I thought. Then I felt stupid- of course she wasn't going to go easy on me, as she didn't go easy on the people of Waikiki Lounge.

"Don't you dare give me that talk back, girl," she warned, jabbing a finger in my face. My body tensed and I felt a tiny trickle of blood run down my face and figured her nail nicked me. "I want you to tell me what happened that night, and this time without being a little smartass."

I swallowed my saliva. "Um, I was going around doing housekeeping and stuff, and then I saw you. The blast blew me back and when I got up I hid because someone was coming my way. Then 47 came out of this laundry basket and killed that woman that was dressed like you. At first he was hostile towards me and then he said that he'd get me out of there and he said to do what he did and I did. He, like, went around killing a few more people and then we were in a cornfield. And that's when I, um, saw when he shot the thing with his silenced gun and

I...thought he killed you."

"Yes yes, it seems 47 may be losing his touch. He's gone rogue from our agency, you see. He's become dangerous- mindlessly killing everyone to get ahead. And as it is my job to hunt down dangerous people and kill them, I was assigned to his case."

I sighed. "What does this even have to do with me? I haven't kept contact with him, and he hasn't with me."

"Oh, what a shame." She smiled. "But you see, he probably already knows you're here. As we've been tracking his activities, he's been tracking ours. As we've been trying to kill him, he's been trying to kill us. Him and that Diana of his. If he's not here already, he will be soon. You're the bait.

"But it's not enough," she continued, walking around me. "I want to hurt him. Hurt him bad, as he hurt me. Killed my girls. I want to hurt those close to him."

"A-are you suggesting that him and I are close?" I intervened, knowing full well where this was going.

She stopped. "Honey, 47 is complicated. He's a stone cold killer. He doesn't care about anyone. So you must imagine how baffled we are that he chose to protect you.

"So why don't you tell us what happened after the cornfield."

"Um, a-after the cornfield, we came across a car that he hotwired and he, like, just brought me home. That's it, really."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"He kind of said 'you're welcome for saving you' and he said that I could tell the truth about what happened at the Waikiki Lounge. That's it. Then he drove off."

"Never to be seen again." The woman laughed. "That's 47 for you- sneaks up, kills, and leaves without a trace." She turned to me. "I believe you, dear. But sadly, you're not out of the clear with me. You're just as much of a killer as he is."

I scoffed. "How?"

"You stood by and watched as he killed all my girls."

"But I couldn't do any-"

She slapped me again, harder, across the face. I pushed myself back into the chair to try to get as far away from her as possible.

"Don't feed me bullshit, little girl. I can see straight through your lies."

"But they're not lies!" The woman pulled a knife from her pocket- how does she have pockets in such a tight outfit- and flashed it before me. I became angry.

"What the FUCK would you like me to do?" I was screaming. "Kill him?!"

She put the knife up against my throat and pressed it enough that it hurt to swallow my own spit.

"I expected you to do something besides just stand by. Yet, you did absolutely nothing." She pressed it further into my neck, and my jugular beat against it.

"My girls died because you, you bi-"

"Sir?" came a muffled voice over her radio. The woman rolled her eyes and sighed, releasing some pressure off of the knife. She clicked a button on her radio and spoke into it. "Yes?"

"The cameras in sector five turned off, and no one in that unit is responding."

The woman smiled and started laughing. She placed the knife back in her pocket. "Oh, really? Well then, I guess you better go check!" She laughed a laugh that shook her body, and I let loose a little tension in my body. 47 was here...wasn't he?

"Well, it looks like he's come to rescue the damsel in distress!" She turned to the guards. "Untie her, now."

I sighed as the ropes released me and rubbed my wrists and ankles only momentarily before I was yanked beside the woman.

"Come with me now," she demanded in a giddy voice. Her nails dug through my shirt and into my arm as she dragged me beside her. My bare feet beat against the concrete floor as I struggled to keep up with her surprisingly quick pace. My hands went to my neck, and when I pulled back my fingers were slightly red.

The woman dragged me along with her down a few flights of stairs, where all of a sudden the lights went out. We stopped short and the three guards behind us almost walked right into us. My captor chuckled. "47 is already a shadow- he does not need darkness."

Her whisper sent a chill down my spine and her fingers dug into me more, cutting off my circulation. As soon as the guards behind us activated their flashlights we began moving again-down one more flight of stairs and through a long hallway where we came across two large doors that required a keycard access.

"Shoot the keypads," the woman instructed. A guard aimed his rifle and shot, destroying the keypads and also my eardrums. He pushed the doors open with his shoulders and we walked into what looked like a command room. Pew shaped desks with abandoned chairs and running computers (must have its own generator) filled the room, but we headed for the glass enclosed small room in the back with a single long wooden table inside.

Once we were inside, the ever so graceful woman all but threw me into one of the corners. "Tie her up again."

A guard approached me and pulled a wound up strand of rope out of his pocket and began tying my hands and feet together with it. I let him, only because I had no other choice.

"Stand by the door and wait for my command," she instructed, turning on the room's light. The guards uttered a 'yes sir' before leaving us and standing by the large doors, like mindless little soldiers. Even the stripper nun chuckled and made an almost inaudible remark about them willingly engaging their deaths. Then she turned to me. "If I die today, you're coming with me." She moves her rather large machine gun to the front where she grips it tightly and looks out the glass.

"If?" I ask, to which she turns to glare at me.

I stay silent and we wait, both never leaving our spots. I play with the rope to see if I can untie myself and escape but it's futile- she must've hired some professional knot tiers on her squad. We waited in the silence for a sign of 47, her glaring out the window and me chewing at the rope. A few minutes later and I made a decent dent into the rope that I was proud of, only stopping to lick my lips and rest my teeth.

A loud explosion made me gasp as the screams of men followed. The woman gripped her gun tighter, teeth bared, and went to stand by me, pointing the tip of her barrel to my temple. I stopped chewing at the rope and could only imagine what had happened, that 47 blew the giant set of doors guarded by the guards who clearly did not see that coming.

I slowed my breathing and tried to listen to the sound of footsteps nearing, but I didn't hear any. I could tell, though, that the woman standing next to me was sweating, growing wary and inpatient.

Finally, she shouted, "Come on out 47!" She laughed. "Or I'll blow her fucking head off!"

Bullets flew through the glass and hit against the glass wall, making me scream and curl tighter in on myself. A piece of glass was lodged into the woman's shoulder and she screamed in pain, falling to the ground. Only, as she fell, her finger squeezed the trigger and a bullet went through the skin on my forehead. I flinched as I felt a sharp, stinging pain and reached my hand up to feel it bleeding.

The woman got up to her knees, her weapon now a few feet away from her, and looked at the glass lodged in front of her shoulder, nearer the chest. With a sigh and a tight grip she ripped it out and held it in her hand.

The door to the room was blown open and in walked 47, donning the same black suit and red tie I saw him wear last time-only this one was clean. He held a machine gun from one of the fallen guards and looked incredibly pissed off, his dark eyebrows set into a scowl. His eyes fell on me for a moment and his expression turned into one of shock for a moment, before growing into furious and setting his eyes on the woman in front of him.

"47, long time no see," she said calmly, the corner of her mouth turned up. "You thought you killed me and here we are."

"A mistake I won't make again," he retorted in his monotone voice, raising his gun at her.

"Now," she said. "Are you going to mince me, or are we going to fight hand to hand, the right way?"

I closed my right eye and blood trickled down into it, and I tried to wipe it away while looking to see what was going to happen next.

He hesitated a moment in the doorway before dropping his gun to the ground on his right and walking forward. With a battle cry, the woman charged at him. She swiped at him with the shard of glass that she fished out of her skin, cutting him a few times here and there before he managed to knock it out of her hands and head-butt her. They traded blows to the stomach, face, and legs-punching, kneeing, kicking, and throwing each other. I felt like I was watching MMA.

She scratched at him with her long fingernails and he took her wrist and bent it in an abnormal way-I heard the crack from where I was sitting. She screamed out in pain as he twisted and pinned her down on her stomach, her head in his arms.

"No, please!" she tried, pleading with him. "Please! I'll do any-"

A sick sounding crack silenced her plea and I shivered in disgust. Her body slumped to the floor, lifeless, as 47 stood over her- victorious, undefeated, and bloody.

His attention turned to me and saw me bound. He unsheathed a knife attached to her thigh and walked over to me, kneeling down in front of me. With a single slice he freed me and threw the knife away behind him, looking into my eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, wiping the blood away from my face to which I hissed and turned away.

"Come, we must go," he said, helping me up. His right hand was wrapped around my back and in his left he pulled out his silenced pistol, just in case.

I felt awkward in the silence of the dimly lit hallways as I struggled to say something to him. Should I thank him again? I rubbed my wrists, wishing for some lotion to soothe the rope marks, and patted the blood away at my head. My heart beat fast and I finally settled on muttering, "How did you find me?"

After a second delay he replied, "I was tracking them down and planned to hit them today when I noticed they brought you in."

"Oh," I said. "Wow, thanks."

He led me back up some stairs and through another hallway, walking slowly for me. I noticed my vision increasingly became blurry and I started to see black. My eyelids were closing and I struggled to keep them open as I clumsily walked beside him. I felt his arm grip me tighter before I realized that it wasn't, and I was just leaning against him more as I began to slump.

"Almost out," he whispered, readjusting his arm and hoisting me up on my feet a bit.

Distant shouting was heard, along with the thundering echoes of large boots hitting the concrete. I could barely hear a man yelling to his squad to 'move, move' and I began to see their flashlights.

I sucked in a breath of fear as we turned around a corner and moved to a door titled 'EXIT.' The air grew cold as we reach the door and my bare feet tingled. 47 placed his gun back in his holster and opened the door.

I gasped as a rush of cold, winter air bit my face as I watched snowflakes fall to the ground. The grass was covered with a thin layer of snow and the sun was setting behind the tall trees. My feet were numbed by the cold, but by looking behind us to see the oncoming group of I knew I had to deal with it.

47, being the perceptive agent that he is, looked down and noticed I had nothing to cover my feet with. He picked me up while simultaneously drawing his gun in his right hand. He closed the door as the guards ran to us, his body turned sideways in an effort to walk forward into the woods and point his gun at the doorway. We were about 15 feet away from the door before it opened and 47 shot the first man that came through.

* * *

From then on I began to fall in and out of consciousness as black dots crowded my vision. I remember only in pictures: the light from 47's gun killing another man, bodies by the door, trees, a car, 47 driving away, shouting, the sound of bullets piercing the air, and 47's concerned face trained on my own. Then, nothing.

* * *

When I awoke again there was a beeping sound next to my head. Bright lights and white walls greeted me as I opened my eyes. I looked down and saw my body was covered in a blue hospital gown, and a dark purple color was seen on a table in my peripheral vision. My left arm was hooked up to an IV tube and a tube in my right arm as feeding me blood. I felt a cold bandage on my forehead and also surprisingly cleaner than before. The air was a good, warm temperature, and I regained feeling in my feet.

Instantly coming to the realization that I was in a hospital, I looked for a doctor in sight.

"Doctor," I whispered. After trying my voice I was surprised to find it croaky and weak. Groaning, I managed to wiggle my fingers and press the 'call nurse' button on my bed. Within 3 minutes a nurse appeared.

"Oh, you're awake," he said, coming to my side. "Here, let me sit you up." After readjusting my pillow for me so that I sat facing him, he asked if that was better to which I nodded.

"I assume you want to know what happened?" Another nod from me, and my eyes closed as I listen to him. "A man came in with you in his arms asking for assistance. He explained to us that he found you on the side of the road, unconscious. As we addressed to you, we noticed that he had vanished. Apparently, he didn't find a reason to stay." He paused. "Do you mind telling us your name?"

"It's Rachel," I whispered, opening my eyes.

"That's a pretty name," he said, jotting it down on the clipboard. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

I nodded but waved my hand. "An-another time."

"Okay, alright, that's okay," he reassured me, writing this down. "How are you feeling?" I groaned and he smiled. "Yeah, I can see. Your body is malnourished and slightly dehydrated from haven't drinking or eating anything yet today. We cleaned up your cuts and stitched the one on your forehead."

My eyes widened and my arm went up to feel the bandage over the cut, stroking it slightly. "There's gonna be a scar now?"

"A faint one, but nothing a little scar cream can't take care of." I closed my eyes and rested my arm back down, sighing. A permanent reminder to my interactions with a Hitman. "Rachel, honey?" I opened my eyes to look at him with little effort. "I'm going to get the police officer now, okay? He needs to know how to contact your parents or guardians to explain to them what happened? You need to tell them what happened to you and why you were found on the side of the road."

I nodded. "Alright."

* * *

In the minute it took to get the police officer to come to my room, I managed to work my brain enough to go along with 47's story. This time, he didn't want me so involved with him and his agency anymore. The police officer- a nice old man by the name of Mr. Ferris, like the Ferris wheel- interrogated me gently. I told them that I was taken by my home and when I awoke I was in a car in the middle of nowhere. It was traveling along a lone road surrounded by woods and I saw snow on the ground. In a panic frenzy, I fought back at my captors until one of them shot a bullet by my head as I managed to jump out of the car. I ran into the woods until I found myself along another road where I eventually started to see black to the point where I probably collapsed. He showed his concern and sorrow that this had to happen to me and asked for my parents' phone numbers, to which I provided. After a quick phone call he informed me that they would be here within the hour.

My parents came through the door a short time later and my mother hugged me, sobbing and ruining her makeup. They both showered me in kisses and my mother held my hand as my father stood by the police officer as he told my story. I ended up staying the night in the hospital and was able to return home the following day, where I was bedridden for the next week.

And just like the Waikiki incident, the police presence hadn't escaped me until maybe after a month of being home. And still, they had a police car occasionally roaming my streets- waiting, protecting. They promised to catch the men responsible for my kidnapping and bring them to justice- if only they knew that justice was already served. Relatives and friends visited, bring me flowers and 'get well soon' cards.

My mind always drifted back to 47. Was he thinking of me? Watching me? Or was he perhaps dead? Who is this Diana? Maybe a wife, a fiancé?

This man with a number for a name and who makes a living out of killing people has saved me twice. He didn't have to, but he did. He just appears, does his business, and then vanishes.

I wish he wouldn't vanish. I wish he would stay and talk to me, tell me everything about him and the agency that he works for and why he has a number for a name. What is his real name? Why does he have a tattoo of a barcode on the back of his head? I get angry sometimes at him, knowing full well that I deserve an explanation that I am not given.

But then I feel guilty and it all. Maybe he's doing this in order to protect me from the evils of this world. Maybe he's doing this to protect me from himself.

And that's what he does; he protects. He kills dangerous people mercilessly and without remorse, but it's to protect the world. He goes out of his way to save a girl he doesn't even know- twice. And even though he kills, he kills for the good of things, in order to make right in this world.

He is both good, and bad at the same time. Because if he does bad to produce good, that means he _is _good at heart…

…doesn't it?

* * *

**A/N: To all you people who are reading this: thank you. And I just wanted to shout out to my one reviewer for helping me: _sorchauna. _**

**Again, at the end, I slightly related her to Victoria from Hitman: Absolution in the title scene before you play. I wanted to show Rachel develop more, too, as you can (hopefully) see.**

**I saw in own of the trailers that the leader of the Saints, Lasandra Dixon, was laying in a hospital bed in a coma. I don't know how as it was mostly clear that she was dead, but I still wanted to incorporate it into the story. I also saw somewhere that in one of the trailers Agent 47 was about to snap her neck and she was pleading for her life, so I incorporated that into there as well- along with her no BS attitude and love for her Saints!**

**PLEASE PLEASE review and tell me how I did! It would mean the WORLD to me! :D Also, you can leave good or bad criticism (I accept both), suggestion on a next chapter (should there be one) or even _preferences _for the next chapter, should there be one.**

**I love writing for Hitman and I hope you loved my story! :)**


	3. Part 3

My favorite subject in school? Dismissal.

"Yes," I whispered to myself as I heard the ending bell and gathered my things. The usual school clowns ran through the hallways screaming with joy and the teachers shouted their disapproval.

It was Friday, finally. The time where kids get to go home and relax, unwind, and go to sleep late.

After quickly going to my locker to retrieve my things, I began heading out to my bus, saying 'bye' to a few friends along the way. I muttered a 'good afternoon' to my bus driver as I sat in my usual seat, seat number 9. I waited patiently until my friend Ciarra came and sat down next to me.

"Ugh, my god!" she growled. "I can't fucking believe that bitch!"

"Who, Ms. Reeden?" I asked, already knowing her answer.

"Yes!" she shouted. "She called me autistic!"

I burst out laughing and she but my arm. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said, even though I wasn't. "But really? She called you that?"

"Yes, and it's not funny! Henry saw the whole thing and laughed with his friends and the rest of the class."

"Honey, Henry is an ass- I don't understand why you like him."

"I don't like him," she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. "I love him."

"You're lusty," I explained. "You don't lo-ove him, you like his good looks- and boy, does he look fine-" I'm cut off as she swats my arm again. "Hey, ow, what the- it's not like you own him or are dating or anything. Christ, Ciarra."

"He's mine, you see," she reassures me, and I roll my eyes.

"Ciarra, please- el chico es un pendejo," I tell her in Spanish, relating to the class that Ms. Reeden teaches.

She scoffs at the idea and changes the subject. "So, what are you doing this weekend? Hiding in your room again?"

"Ugh, no, actually. I was hoping we'd go see a movie?"

"What movie?"

"I don't know, we'll decide when we get there."

She thought it over for a second in her mind. "Okay, alright, I can do Saturday night, how's that?"

"¡Es muy bueno, chica! ¡Gracías!"

She scoffs again and makes a barely audible comment on how I'm only thankful because she's the only reason I leave my house on the weekends. Then she looks out the window and announces its my stop.

"Oh hey, wow, almost went by it," I say as she gets up so I can leave. "See you

Saturday night, chica," I say to her and a 'thanks' to my bus driver, who tips his hat.

I walk down the street to my house and immediately notice that a black SUV is parked in the driveway-along with my parents' car-which leaves me to wonder who is at my house and why my parents aren't at work today.

Dreading bad news, I quicken my pace and take out my keys, sliding them into the slot and opening the door. I scream and flail my arms as two birds I faintly identify as doves fly out of the door and into the sky. Watching them fly onto a nearby tree in disbelief, I shake my head and enter my house, slightly shaken.

"Mom, dad?" I holler. "Something you want to tell me?"

Plopping my backpack down on the floor by the stairs, I take a few steps forward past the kitchen and into the living room before I stop. My heart stops as well.

My parents sit on the couch before me, both next to each other, covered in blood and multiple bullet holes. I fail to breathe as I take in their terrified, frozen faces that I know to be lifeless. My eyes are still trained on my parents as two men dressed in gangster clothing and big heavy boots and giant guns walk into my peripheral vision.

"Sorry, kid, but Mommy and Daddy ain't got nothin' to say no more," says one of them, his voice deep. "Cause we shot 'em."

I ignore them, still gaping at my parents. My heart sinks as I realize that they are holding hands, even in death.

The other one, the smaller one, laughs. "Yeah!" he shouts. "They was screamin' and shit, yellin' out prayers and beggin' us to stop but we was like, 'No, we got a job to do' and fucking MINCED them." He laughs again, snorting.

"And our job isn't over yet," says the bigger one, coming near me. I finally turn my eyes towards him and take in his darker skin, heavy beard, and thick eyebrows. The face of my killer, and of my parents' killer.

He raises his gun to my head about two feet away from me and I close my eyes, a tear streaming down my cheek. "Prepare to be minced," he says, sending the other one into guffaws.

Two soft sounding bullets ring out, followed by two thuds. I don't open my eyes- in fact, my eyes and my fists clench shut as silent tears roll down my cheek. I don't need to turn around to know who it is, even as I hear him approach me.

He stood a few feet away from me and says my name: "Rachel." It is soft and consoling, yet demanding.

My head turns slightly and I look at him, standing there behind me in the same suit. I recognize that he acknowledges the fact that I'm crying but I don't do anything to cover up, and turn back to face my parents. "You're late," I gasp out.

He pauses. "We both know that things will never be the same. My enemies know that you are affiliated with me and will use you to get to me."

"Then just kill me, if I'm that much a liability," I say, struggling to keep my voice strong and staring at my parents' joined hands.

"I wouldn't do that. It is my fault that you're in this mess, and I will do everything in my power to get you out."

"You're late."

Pause. "I believe I know who did this. I will track him down and kill him, but in the meantime I need to keep you safe." I say nothing, and he takes it as his queue to continue. "Pack your bags, and pack lightly- you're coming with me, and I'm afraid you won't be coming back."

"Never?" I ask.

"I need to relocate you to ensure your wellbeing."

"Did my parents' wellbeing matter too?" I hear him suck in a breath to respond but I cut him off. "You know, they were holding hands when they died." My voice shakes. "I think that's the sweetest thing, sweeter than the Titanic, but you wouldn't know that, would you?" I sigh. "If I hadn't been at school today, I would have been holding hands with them, and you wouldn't have to worry."

"I am sorry for your loss, Rachel, but we need to move." I turn and look at him. "The authorities are on their way."

I stand there for a moment and recollect myself before sighing and nodding. "Okay," I whisper, grabbing my bag and heading upstairs. Almost as if it were a normal day, coming home from school, I think to myself, still in disbelief.

As soon as I get to my room I dump out all of my school things on my bed. I grab 2 outfits and shove them in the biggest pocket, along with some undergarments, my wallet, and some cinnamon gum. My eyes scan my room looking for what else to bring while trying to ignore the pain in my chest that this is the last time I'll ever see my belongings. Then I remember- a photo album I made not a while back, stuffed under my mattress. I lift it up and grab it, stuffing it into the smaller pocket in my bag and breathe a sigh of relief when it fits. I look in the mirror and ignore the red eyes and tear streaks on my face to see what I'm wearing- a pair of leggings and a loose shirt with sneakers. Patting my pockets to make sure that I have my dumb flip phone- still no iPhone- and my iPod, I stuff in the chargers and sling the backpack over my shoulder. Noting its light weight, I walked down the stairs to meet him, satisfied.

"I'm ready," I croak. He nods but holds his hand out in front of him, and I look at him confused.

"Phone," he said, and I hesitantly hand him my phone. He gently takes my phone from me only to drop it on the ground and stomp it once to death. I could only stare bewildered before he casually opens the door and gestures. "Come," he says, and I do, my mouth still open, and he closes the door behind us. I follow him to his car about a block from my house and get in the passenger side, putting my bag down by my feet and strapping the seatbelt on.

He starts the car, forgetting his own seatbelt, and screeches down the street. I lean my head down on the window and stare out, watching my neighbors' houses fly by for the last time. We pull onto the highway that my parents used to go to work every day and I sigh, drumming my fingers on my head.

I learn some things on this silent road trip. I learn that squeezing my eyes closed and willing-praying, even- for the image of my dead parents to escape my mind doesn't work. I learn that he isn't the talkative type. I learn that he drives an older car, even though in my mind I imagined him driving a futuristic car. I learn that he's an excellent driver, or at least that assumption is confirmed. I learn to observe him in my peripheral vision only as I watch his eyes concentrate on the road, and sometimes on me as if he were uncomfortable and doesn't know what to say or do to a girl who walked in on her dead parents and was whisked away.

It was about two hours in on our little field trip before I made a point of my boredom and obnoxiously sighed. "Where are we going?" I sigh.

"To my apartment, where you will be staying for the time being until I can locate the man who orchestrated the attack," he responds, not missing a beat.

"And where is that?" I ask, annoyed.

"Classified."

I laugh slightly at that. "Jesus. So you can know where I live but I can't know where you live? That's not fair. I don't even know what state I'm going to end up in."

"It's not far from here."

"Mhm," I mumble. "And ugh, who is this guy that 'orchestrated the attack?' Can I know that, at least?"

47 looked at me before turning back to the road. "His code name is Birdie-" I scoff "-an ex ICA official who supplied information. He went rogue and is now after me."

"And what beef does he have with you?"

"It's more like unfinished business."

"Mm-hmm." I lick my lips. "What's ICA?"

"The agency I work for."

"Okay. And why did he go rogue?"

"He decided that working with others didn't suite him."

"Were you sent to kill him?"

"No, we met on another note. I required information." I watch as he flexes his hands in his gloves as a memory must have run through his mind.

"And he didn't supply it, or...?"

"He betrayed me. Enough talk now."

His last sentence resonated through my bones and prevented me from making a smartass comment I was bound to make. I bit my tongue and we rode the rest of the way in silence, with me looking out the window and he focused on his driving.

About another hour later he took an exit off the highway. We drive for another half hour into the city, where he pulled into the parking of an apartment complex.

I muttered a 'finally' under my breath and unbuckled my seat belt, grabbed my bag, and got out of the car.

"Follow me," he said, walking to the entrance. Adjusting my bag on my shoulders I walked behind him and onto the nearest elevator. I watched him press the button for floor 23 and I stored that in the back of my mind. We walked out of the elevator and stepped on the floor, taking a short walk to room 223.

Well, that's easy to remember, I told myself as he unlocked the door. Room 223 on floor 23. Is that wise?

He opened the door and stepped inside, immediately walking towards a briefcase that sat on a table near the window. While he played with his fancy briefcase I looked around- clean but old apartment, with a small kitchenette and a small sitting area. There were two doors, and I guessed that one lead to the bedroom and the other to the bathroom.

He clicked his briefcase closed and turned to me, catching my attention. "I will be back soon. Remain here."

"Yep, yep," I muttered, walking towards the sitting area and plopping down on the tiny sofa. "Business. You gotta do what you gotta do."

He took this as acceptance from me and left, silently closing the door behind him.

I turned, looking at the door to see if he really left and then giving it a few second a before springing up and entering the first door that I saw. It happened to be the bathroom- a small, dark little excuse for a bathroom. I expected to see bloodstains from him cleaning himself up after missions but instead it was relatively clean with new hotel towels.

I exited that room to walk into his bedroom, where all I could find was a small closet filled with suits (insert sarcastic moment of surprise here) and a neat bed. Nothing exciting and/or informing here.

This beats, I thought to myself, sitting back down on the sofa.

I pick up a pamphlet on the table before me and notice that its for room service. My stomach growls as it demands food and I open it up to the page where it gives available breakfast, lunch, dinners, and deserts that could be shipped to the room. I pick up the landline next to it and dial the number, asking for the steak, and they reply that it would take a half an hour and it would be on the tab to the room.

"Good," I say pleased, and hang up.

I take out my iPod from my pockets and place them inside the smaller pocket of my bag for security against angry hitmen when I notice the photo album. My attitude immediately changes as I take it out and open it.

I am met with pictures of myself when I was a baby growing into a child with sarcastic and smart ass little comments made by myself near the photos. A smile caught at my lips as I noticed I nicknamed myself 'little shit.' I stared at a family portrait of me when I was 5 or 6 years of age, with my parents and brother. He didn't look happy, as if he forced the smile- that is, if you could look past the red X I marked on his face. The comment I made next to the picture read in scrawled handwriting 'One down. RIP big bro.'

The page almost ripped as I quickly moved past that picture and looked at the other ones of my family, myself growing up, and me smiling with my friends. Time catches up in the album as I used up almost all the pages and there I am, smiling with Parker, Ciarra, Tyler-my old drug dealer- and many others.

The mood is uplifting as I refer to them in vulgar language, and then it drastically changes.

The next page reveals a dark gray silhouette of a man's head with a question mark inside and a light gray background. The caption read 'Have you seem this man?' Next to it, I wrote 'He only saved my life twice.' I posted newspaper clippings next reporting the tragic accident at Waikiki Lounge and how the gas station blew up and a few people were killed. One newspaper clipping shows a disgruntled picture of me and what I looked like after the incident and I underlined a quote from me in the article saying that I was lucky, and wrote next to it 'and luck runs out.' There are two pages left of the photo album that aren't used and I decide to use one.

Going back to the family picture with my brother I took it out of its slot, grabbing a pen off of the table and crossing out the caption. I slide it into the holder on the second to last page after drawing two large x's on my parents' smiling faces. On the caption next to it I angrily wrote in the black pen 'LUCK RAN OUT.' I slam the book closed and dropped it, along with the pen, on the table.

A knock on the door startles me. "Room service," says a man, and I open the door. He hands me my plate on the cart he lugs around and I can't help but blush- he's young and this is probably a college job. He has cropped blonde hair and stunning green eyes and a gorgeous smile.

"Well, what are you doing here?" he asks, flashing me his white teeth. I smile back, surprised I can even manage one given my current situation. "I thought an old man lived here."

I blink. Think of something quick, you idiot! "Ugh, he's my uncle." I nod, convincing myself. "Yeah, I'm staying with him for a while. My parents are...on vacation." Forever. In heaven.

"Alright then," he says. "I better get a move on so I can get paid and afford college. You, sweetie, enjoy your dinner."

I nod like an idiot and smile. I'm probably blushing, I think as I close the door with my food. God, I'm such an idiot!

I walk over and sit back down on the sofa, shaking my head. Maybe this is what Ciarra feels when she is around Henry, I ask myself. Guilt about making fun of her and Henry flashes through me and I realized that I didn't rain check her on that movie.

She'll understand, I say to myself as I begin my dinner. I pull this shit all the time. Besides, the story of my parents' gruesome murder and my disappearance oughta-

I stop devouring my plate immediately, stand up, and place it on one of the kitchenette's counters. Suddenly, I'm not hungry anymore. Instead, I'm craving something I haven't had in almost a year- weed.

I thought of my coping strategies and bit my tongue, hummed a tune, and shut my eyes closed- but this time it wouldn't work.

Fuck it, I thought. This is a shit enough town, I should find some weed somewhere.

I grabbed my wallet and pulled out all the cash I managed to rake in over the months, which happened to be about $200 give or take. Opening the door, I remembered to take a left and spotted the elevator. I chanted '223 on floor 23' in my head a few times on the way down to memorize it, all the while telling myself that I'll be out for only a short while and back before he notices. As I exit the building I take note of the time on a large clock on the wall- 7:42.

I step outside, cautiously looking around in case I spotted 47 walking in- how embarrassing would that be- before running down the steps and taking a right, the street lamps guiding my path as it grew darker.

Walking about 2 blocks down I encountered a man smoking what appeared to be a cigarette in an alleyway. As I walked closer I recognized the smell to be not of cigarette, but of my lovely, rolled plant.

I stopped beside him and looked in the alleyway to spot another man and a woman huddled around a small fire smoking the same thing and smiled. Boy do I love hippies.

"What can I do for you, miss?" the hippie asked me politely.

"To be honest, I was out looking for a little escape," I tell him, smiling and eyeing his smoke.

"Nu-uh-uh," he said. "I don't do sex with little girls."

"No no, not that kind of escape," I assure him. I gestured to his joint. "A joint is more like it."

His eyebrow show up and he looked me up and down. "You got money, little girl?"

I nodded and pulled the wad from my pocket, handing it to him. He took it all and whistled as he counted it. Looking back at his buddies to confirm, he turned back to me after they nodded their approval. "What are you escaping from, girl? Your rich daddy?"

"Actually, the gruesome murder of my parents." I smile as he chokes on his joint a bit. The other two give each other a look.

"Oh, well, ugh, sorry to hear that," he comments, fumbling around in his pockets for a joint and ducking in the alleyway. "Come over here then."

I sit on an overturned paint bucket as he brings over another bucket for himself to sit on. Finally finding another joint in his deep pockets he hands one to me.

I take it in my mouth and wait for him to light it, and once he does I inhale for a good ten seconds before letting it out.

I giggle. "Boy, do I miss those."

* * *

47 is rather displeased with the small amount of information he got from his sources on the whereabouts of Birdie tonight. He plans out his next go-to strategy as he enters the lift and opens the door to his apartment.

The sight and smell of a half eaten steak dinner catch his attention first. He looks around the apartment but can't find the girl- she isn't even in the bathroom or the bedroom. He puts down his suitcase and checks his watch- the time reads 8:27. He was gone for about 2 hours. Checking the apartment for signs of a struggle, he notices a black book sitting on the table. As he approaches he identifies it as a photo album.

Curious, he opens the book and scrolls through Rachel's childhood pictures, unfazed at the comments. He pauses to where there is caption crossed out but moves on, only to pause again at the familiar 'wanted' picture of him going around. He scans the newspaper clippings and keeps note of her underlining and commenting. The last page he turns to is to a picture of her family all together when Rachel was little. It includes a boy he could only assume was her brother with a red x over his face, and 2 black x's over her parents' face. After reading her derogatory comment, he closes the books, places his silverballers in their holsters, and leaves the room.

He was not two feet out his door before he almost ran into a serviceman.

The boy's eyes lit up. "Oh, hey, you're that girl's uncle!" 47 pauses, staring at him. "If you're looking for her I saw her down in the lobby about an hour ago. She looked angry."

47 walked off, slamming the buttons on the elevator and arriving in the lobby.

He walked over to the bellhop. "Excuse me, have you seen a girl leave here about an hour ago?"

"Long brown hair, pissed off expression?" 47 nodded. "She took a right and continued on straight."

He left without a thank you and followed the given directions, only slowing his walk when he heard giggling sounds. He followed those sounds and pinpointed them to an alleyway, and in the light of the fire in front of her he could make out Rachel.

His eyes narrowed at her as he caught her smoking a joint and cleared his throat.

* * *

"...and so we ran, and they never even caught us," Melissa said dramatically, finishing her tale of when they were almost caught on a major drug bust in Chicago.

I giggled at her story, finding it hilarious in my weed-induced state that of all the police officers there, they couldn't close all the exits and allowed for some to escape.

The sound of a throat clearing caught my attention and I sought where the noise was coming from. A familiar figure was dimly lit at the entrance of the alleyway, and one look at his shiny bald head made me groan. "Oh no."

"What?" asked Derek.

"That's the guy! The guy with a number for a name I told you all about!" I shouted to them, drawing all their attention away from their burning joints to 47.

"Come," he said simply, and I shook my head.

"Sorry, dude, but no. I ain't going with you, you murdered my family."

His face got even angrier, if that was possible. "Come, now," he ordered.

I stood up, angry as well. "No! You can't fucking make me!"

Derek and Frank stood up as well. Frank, the one who gave me the joint, said, "You heard her. She said no. Now leave."

47 turned his attention to him, giving him a look that said 'back off.'

But Frank did the exact opposite and got closer to him. "You got a hearing problem, buddy? I said-"

But he never got to finish was he was going to say before 47 punched him square in the face. His body slumped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Derek took out his switchblade and lunged at 47, who easily dodged his attack and shoved the switchblade up Derek's throat, letting his body sink to the floor gurgling.

I walked closer to 47. "I can't believe you! For fucks sake, all you do is kill!"

He grabbed my arm and dragged me closer to him. "Come with me, now."

"No!" I screamed, struggling. "You son of a bitch! If you knew they were coming to kill me, why couldn't you come earlier and save my fucking parents? Huh? Why was that the one thing you fucked up? Oh no, wait, you also fucked up not killing that bitch who ended up kidnapping me! I thought you were supposed to be a good hitman, why-"

A sudden jolt on my arm pulled me to him, my back facing him. He wrapped his arm around my body and put his hand over my mouth. I didn't have time to react before a felt a needle jab into my neck. I screamed, trying to get his hand off of me, but I became weaker and weaker as the familiar blackness shrouded my vision again and I passed out.

* * *

When I awoke, it was thanks to a multitude of things. The sound of my roaring stomach, the sharp sting of sunlight in my eyes, and a throbbing headache.

Groaning, I brought my arm up and rested it on my weary eyes, protecting it from the sun's rays. I slowly rose, careful not to pass out, and made my way over to the blinds and closed them. Some sun still shone through, but not as blinding as it was before.

My eyes slowly but surely opened and I looked around, my mind waking up and recollecting the past events. I was back in 47's apartment where e apparently put me on the small sofa. One hand went up to rub the sore spot from when he drugged me and felt the texture of a bandaid covering the area, and the other hand went to my stomach as it let out another roar. I almost forgot about weed munchies.

After 5 minutes of being on the phone with the hotel's service and cringing at the voice on the other side, I had ordered myself a large and sweet-filled breakfast, hoping that the same boy would deliver it as last time.

Grabbing my bag and stuffing my photo album back in it, I headed to the bathroom where I showered and changed into a new set of clothes. I put my hair in a bun and lightly slapped my life, trying to get rid of the dark eye circles and lifeless skin to no avail.

Sighing at the dead creature staring back at me I wondered if 47 could ever forgive me, or what he thought of now. Why was he protecting a druggie who tells him he's not good enough? Hell, we aren't even married!

Exiting the bathroom, I walked over and pressed my ear against his bedroom door.

After hearing no noise for 10 seconds, I opened it to find the bed clean again and no one there.

"Room service!" yelled a man's voice at the front door, preceded by a knock.

Well, I thought, I'd be damned if that were the same guy.

Opening the door, I was doomed to be damned. The college boy smiled at me, his perfect teeth glinting under the crappy light. "Morning, sunshine!"

"What time is it?" I asked.

He glanced at his watch. "10 to 10. Did you just wake up?"

"So what if I did? Don't college people do that too?"

He laughed. "On weekends. You looked real tired when your uncle carried you home, as if you passed out on the streets. I've got a breakfast to feed an army-may I come in?"

"You may."

He wheeled his cart in the middle of the room and stopped. "An entire cart full of food to room 223. Are your friends coming?"

"Ha! I don't have any friends." I walked over to the cart and eyes the food.

"Holy shit, wait- is that all for me?"

"Isn't this what you ordered?"

"Well, yeah but...wow."

He laughed. "Guess this is what they call 'growing.'"

"Wanna help me eat it all?" I offered, to which he shook his head. "Come on, just stay for a minute! It won't take long!"

"Nah, I got another round to do and then I'm off."

"It'll only take a minute. You can string up some bullshit story of how I complained and kept you here longer."

He gave me a funny look. "You know, you swear a lot for a little girl." Then he shrugged. "Sure, why not. Food does look tasty."

* * *

Ten minutes later we both sat next to each other on the couch with the cart of food in front of us, half gone.

"So, what is it that you're majoring in?" I asked him.

"Biochemical engineering." I gave him a look. "It's kind of like medicine, almost."

"Handsome and smart, wow!" He laughs, his cheeks slightly turning red. "And I'm guessing the schooling is expensive, hence why you're here."

"Uh-huh. So, what about you? Go to school around here?"

"Um, no." I laughed nervously. "I'm just living here for the weekend. What day is it, by the way?"

"Saturday. What grade are you in?"

"I'm a sophomore."

"You look older than 16."

"I'm 15." I laugh, gesturing to my eyes. "Must be the Gucci bags."

He laughed. "I like you, Rachel. You're smart, funny, and cute." He leaned in closer to my face and pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. "I really like you."

I put my hand on his shoulder, halting his advance. He looked at me questioningly. "I think it's time for you to leave, David." I gesture to the food cart. "You're eating all my food."

He chuckled and took my hand in his. "You sure?"

I let my hand go and stood up. "Pretty damn sure, handsome. Get out and finish your round."

Sighing, he stood up in front of me. "Whatever you say...beautiful." Grabbing me by the head, he leaned down and kissed me on the lips. An instant later, he was across the room. "Maybe I'll come by later and we can continue our date." Tipping his imaginary hat, he left the room.

I felt my lips as my cheeks blushed. The girl part of me was screaming for having my first kiss with a college boy, and the rational part of me was scolding me for trusting him.

The door opened again and I looked up, about ready to yell at him and give him a piece of my mind. But then in walked 47, who instantly took sight of me and the food cart in.

I rolled my eyes, ignoring him completely as I sat down and stared at my hands in my lap.

"Get up, we're leaving," he told me, walking to his bedroom.

"Where are we going?" I shouted to him.

"Following a lead on Birdie," he stated, walking out of his bedroom with his suitcase that I didn't realize he stored there.

"That doesn't answer the question," I countered, playing with my hands.

He looked me in the eyes. "Barcelona, Spain."

"Oh, wow," I said before I could help myself. I get to go to Spain, finally! Probably won't be doing any sightseeing, but it's still a nice thing to do.

I grabbed my bag and met him at the door. He held his hand out, and within in and within it lay a passport. I took it and scrolled through it real quick, noting my school picture of me not smiling next to an alias: Rachel Stine.

We reunited in the elevator and I noticed he was wearing a new suit- a black suit with no tie. At least he's a bit different from day to day. On the way down, he spoke to me, "It's imperative that you stay with me at all times and do as I say. Is that clear?"

I sighed. "Yep."

Upon leaving the hotel building we drove in his car to the airport. The airport was packed and the security was tight, but we were able to make out flight just in time. I don't know how he was able to get his suitcase past the metal detectors, but he showed no anxiety of being caught.

I snagged the window seat and watched the cloud go by and the land disappear from view. He was able to remain collected while I all but killed someone from the boredom before falling asleep again, the change in pressure being too much for my brain who was already suffering from a headache.

I awoke as we were landing by the hustle of people getting ready. When we got off the flight and somehow easily made it through even more airport security, we hailed a cab to another hotel. I looked out the window, fascinated by the scenery and taking mental pictures.

47 spoke to the taxi driver in a Spanish that I couldn't decipher and we stopped in front of a fancy, historic looking hotel with small balconies.

When he left the car I followed and stood by him as he registered us in in

Spanish and was handed a key. I watched my footsteps fall on top of the marble floor as I followed him into the elevator, making sure to note what level we were on- level 6, as this was a shorter building than the last one.

We arrived at room 33 and he unlocked the door. I was met with historic paintings, crown moldings, and expensive furnishings. This was no field trip hotel for sure.

As I stepped inside I spied him in my peripheral vision opening his precious suitcase and checking his guns, loading them with ammo, so I turned around and watched him. When he was done and sensed my stare, he returned it, staring into my eyes, sending a small chill down my spine. "I have located Birdie's secure location and will move in to terminate," he begins. "I will be back within a few hours. Until then, remain here."

"Yep," I muttered, plopping my backpack on the fancy couch. As he leaves I scan the room again. Quaint, I think to myself, the corner of my lips turning up.

The gleam of metal caught my eye and I looked to where 47 had stood at the table on recognized the familiar shape of a gun. Not so quaint.

I immediately ran over to it and picked it up in my hands, turning it around and studying it. He left one of his guns here? On purpose, or did he forget? But how could a man like 47 forget things like that?

I put the gun down back where I found it and walked into the bathroom, splashing some water on my face and running my eyes, willing myself to focus. Not for me, but for 47.

Leaving the bathroom I approached the small TV and turned it on, listening to the people talk in Spanish. I switched from sitcom to cartoon to sitcom, not understanding a damn word that they said but finding it entertaining nonetheless. I went through my bag and threw out my phone charger, making a mental note to tell 47 that he owed me a new one. I organized the contents and scrolled through my list of songs on my iPod.

Bored of that, I flipped through the pages of the passport and tried to memorize exactly who Rachel Stine is.

After reading facts about myself that I already knew- Rachel Stine coincidentally had brown hair and hazel eyes just like myself- I slipped the passport in my backpack, next to the photo album that I refused to take out.

Drumming my hands on my thigh I began to grow inpatient. I managed to kill about 3 hours, and the long time lapse made my stomach growl furiously again. Besides craving weed again, I also craved even more food.

I stood up and grabbed a pamphlet I perceived to be the menu, but I could barely read anything. I ended up ordering a sandwich in very choppy Spanish, since it had the same spelling as the American word. I just added 'de queso' after it, so I'm literally expecting a lump of cheese between two pieces of bread.

Waiting patiently, I watched the Spanish rendition of Spongebob while playing with the gun-a rather safe pastime-as I pretended to shoot Spongebob and I familiarized myself on how to load and unload ammo and how to take the safety off.

When the food arrived I hid the gun under a throw pillow and sat on the couch, gingerly eating the sandwich and glad that they had the decency to add some meat to it and make it desirable and eatable.

Having enough of Spongebob in Spain, I shut the TV off and left the gun and plate on the table before stepping out on the balcony.

"Oh, I needed this," I say as a breeze of cool air blows through my hair. I look onto the city of Barcelona at night, watching bikers ride to and fro, people talk on their phones, arguments that lasted way beyond American arguments, and a tourist here and there taking photos. The street lamps were on, adding to the eerie and historic feeling of everything, sending everyone back in time a few years.

A group of burly men gathered near the entrance of the hotel caught my eye. They were bickering with each other in Spanish and glancing around. One of them held in his hand a piece of paper and I wondered if they were lost.

The man holding the piece of paper stopped short and looked up at me. Upon contact he squinted his eyes and looked at the paper in his hands, then back at me, then to his group. With one hand he gesticulated the picture and the other he pointed at me. After they all stared in my direction, they rushed inside the hotel until I couldn't see them anymore.

I stepped back inside the room and closed the balcony door. They were looking at me, right? I could have sworn they were looking directly at me. But who were they and what did they want with me?

I stopped myself for a second. Really? Was I honestly asking those questions?

They were probably staring at a picture of me and looking around for me because a scout in the area had reported mine, and 47's, presence.

How long would it take for them to reach my room? Not even 5 minutes? Were they sent to kill me or capture me?

I'm going to go with kill, a voice inside me said.

I ran my hands through my hair. Well, what the hell was I supposed to do now? I didn't know where 47 was or if he even knew what was happening, and he didn't leave me anything to contact him with. In fact, he stomped the only communication device that I owned to pieces on another continent. Smashing, pardon the pun.

Trying to calm myself down, I decided that I needed to defend myself. And what better to defend myself with a gun?

I grabbed it off the couch and cocked it, knowing it was fully loaded when I was playing with it on the couch. Looking around for a cover, I decided to go behind the wall leading to the bedroom, closest to the door but still about 10 feet away. They would meet see me coming.

Remembering the day when I was first rescued by 47, I gripped the gun as he gripped his. I slowed my breathing as he did his and I waited, patiently, for my enemy to come to me.

Somehow, I was able to hear the ding of the elevator to signal the arrival to the floor. Heavy boots sounded and stopped in front of my door. After hushed whispers and the slight clicking of pick locking, the door opened. The men cocked and loaded their guns and walked inside.

"Come on out, chica," sang one man, who was clearly a smoker. "We won't hurt you."

"Like hell you won't," I whispered, covering my eyes and shooting blindly out the corner of the wall.

A man screamed in pain and started screeching in Spanish. Gunshots immediately broke out around me and I made sure that the wall completely protected me. When

I heard the sounds of reloading I took it as my queue to glance around the corner, aim wildly, and fire two rounds. They both missed.

"Not a good shot, girlie!" yelled another one. "You got lucky!"

The comment about luck ticked me off and I fired another shot blindly around the corner. Most of the firing ceased and a large thud was heard.

"¡Pendeja!" shouted one. "Killed Gregorio!"

My chest hurt. No, no no no, I thought desperately. No, I didn't mean to kill, I just...what did I want to do? Trying to remain calm even though I began hyperventilating, I said in a shaky voice, "H-how's the luck for you now, huh?"

A string of what I could only imagine were dirty words sprung from his mouth as the fire increased intensity.

We traded blows back and forth, me closing my eyes the entire time. My shooting arm began to shake from the constant vibrations and I wondered how anyone could do this everyday and not have their arm fall off.

A loud ding sounded next to me as the dry wall broke under the pressure of a bullet that soared past my head. My left ear rung like crazy and I could barely hear from that ear. My heart quickened its beating and I pushed my legs out to hide myself further behind the wall when a bullet grazed my shin.

I clutched it, hissing, and moved to my right further for better, thicker protection from the wall. Blood poured from the wound but it wasn't deep enough to actually wound me. I laid my head back against the wall, wishing that 47 would come and just kill these punks and get this over with.

Taking a deep breath, I crane my neck and peek out behind my cover. The man who has the only angle on me that could have grazed my shin sits in the corner and reloads his gun. It's as if time slows as I make my decision, hold my breath, point my gun, aim, and fire.

Click. Puzzled, I pull the trigger again. Click.

I pull myself back behind cover and check the ammo- empty. I'm all out. Now, I literally have nothing.

"Oh, shit," I whisper angrily to myself, leaning my head back against the wall.

"Woah, woah!" starts a guy, his voice gradually getting louder. "¡Deja, deja chicos!" The gunshots stop and he laughs, leaving me confused. "Ooh, I know that sound, girl. Yeah, heard it a lot of times before. You're out of ammo. And, out of luck."

"Not so tough now, are you girlie?" one of them guffaws.

"Aw yeah," he continues. "We gonna fuck you u-"

I sigh in sick relief as I hear the silenced bullets ring out. Screams are cut short, only to be replaced by the thuds of corpses hitting the ground. I sink to the ground, picking at the carvings on the gun.

47 steps over the dead bodies and walks over to where he no doubt finds the greatest number of bullet holes lodged in the apartment and kneels beside me.

"Are you hurt?"

I shake my head. "No." I space out, still picking at the gun. "How, ugh, many did I kill? Do you know?"

"...One," he lies. "Only one."

I nod, accepting his lie. He offers me his hand and I take it as he hoists me to my feet, taking the gun from me in the process and putting it in his pocket. "We need to move," he tells me. "The authorities are already here."

"Impeccable timing," I comment. "I'll go get my bag."

He picks up his suitcase and I meet him by the door, my backpack slung over my shoulders. This time we exit right and head over to the emergency staircases, running all the way down the stairs and out through the back entrance.

The bright lights of the police cars shine off the buildings and metal dumpsters and we hunch down, slipping through the cracks and escaping into Barcelona at night.

As we walk I instigate the conversation. "So, you killed Birdie, right?"

"Yes," he responds, saying nothing more.

"So...where are we going now?" I stop walking and stare at him, the glow of the nearest street lamp illuminating his hard jaw line and collarbones, making his eyes disappear in the dark.

"I am taking to you to the only safe place I know of until I can better relocate you to a permanent, safe location."

"That," I laugh, "doesn't answer the question."

He thinks it over. "Northern Russia." He hails a taxi as I think this move over.

Isn't that going to be a very cold, harsh climate? Is he nuts? I didn't bring any suitable clothing for the rooms of environment.

We enter the taxi that pulls up alongside us, 47 ushering me in first. He slurs Spanish to the driver, who nods and begins driving.

"Russia, huh?" I ask. "Why not back in America?"

"Too many threats."

My heart throbs as I try to reason with him. "But you have to understand, all I know is English and shit Spanish and I don't want to be alone in another country-"

"Relax," he reassures me. "This is only temporary."

I sigh and look out the window, watching cop cars and ambulances race past to where we came from and soon enough, we arrive at an airport.

47 tosses a wad of cash to the driver and slams the door shut, walking into the airport with me hot on his trail and orders the tickets. We are told, in English, that the flight is not for another 4 hours, and we go sit in the 'waiting room' until it is.

I curl up on the bench and find success in falling asleep as the next thing I notice is 47 shaking me to wake me up.

Groggily, I stand up and rub my eyes, following close behind him into the line for our flight. I dig out my passport and hand it to the lady, who looks at it, runs it through a computer, and hands it back to me.

We board the plane and I stare out the window, lost in space. I'm hit with a wave of depression as I think of my dead parents and my friends that I'll never get to see again that must be worried sick. I wonder if they cried, fearing the worst. I wonder if my parents are with my brother, if there is such a thing as heaven and god. And I wonder if I'm going to hell for being responsible for more than one death, or if god would forgive me.

I wonder if this is the last time I hold a gun, and I wonder if I am destined to die young.

The thought startles me and I readjust myself in the seat and lay my head down on the window. What is the life span of someone like me anyway? How long can I go on like this? 47 won't be by my side forever, and exactly how much could one man do? What does my future have in store for me- living a long and happy life or becoming a hitman?

Whatever it is, I tell myself, watching the clouds go by, I think I'm ready for either.

* * *

**A/N: Boom, here's another one. I decided to take a totally different turn on this, and I already have the next chapter planned out. I'm still figuring out where I want to take this story exactly. I'm still taking suggestions and ideas though :)**

**This took me a while to make and I'm kind of glad with the outcome. I hope you're happy with it too! _Pl_****_ease leave a review_ and tell me how I did! It would mean a lot, thanks!**

**I tried to have a recurring theme in this one: luck, and when luck runs out. Rachel believes in luck to a degree, and she also believe that if you have it once, it's bound to run out soon. She is still changing as a person, but for the better or for the worse is up to the reader. And this chapter's antagonist was Birdie, as I'm 99.99% sure he's the next antagonist in the next game.**

** Can't wait to write the next chapter, although now I'd be making up new antagonists and plots which is always challenging. Hope you liked it :)**


	4. Part 4

**Warning: This contains material from Hitman: Contracts and the PS3 game The Last Of Us. I saw it on Youtube and it was PERFECT but sadly I can't get it as I have only an Xbox 360. But it gave me the perfect idea for this story, so, enjoy as always:**

* * *

I remember when a kid in my history class asked why the Germans lost in Russia, and the teacher responded that they froze to death. I remember not believing it, thinking Russia can't be that far up north to actually freeze to death.

I no longer stand by that belief.

As soon as we got off the plane, goose bumps lined my skin and I hugged myself, shivering. Even the lady scanning me at the security check laughed at me and asked if it was my first time in Russia. I didn't need to respond- I couldn't either, my teeth were chattering too hard.

"Holy shit man," I breathed, following 47 out of the airport. "It's f-f-fucking cold. How are you not freezing?"

"I've been here before," he responded. The only thing cold about him was his voice and demeanour, not like that's new though.

"Warn a girl!" I shouted in a whisper, not trying to look like too much of a tourist amongst these Russians.

"You may purchase new, more suitable clothing in town," he informed, hailing a cab in Russian.

"Oh, I MAY, well that's charming." I watched light snowflakes fall on the already white ground. How do these people live like this?

I rubbed my arms in a feeble attempt to stay cool as a cab approached us. Even when we got inside the cab, the temperature only raised not even 10 degrees.

47 barked at the driver in Russian until he pulled away from the airport. This being the first time I actually heard the Russian language, I was intrigued.

"So you have a house here? Christ. Why here, in all the places of the world?"

When he didn't respond, I pressed, "Hello?"

"I have business to attain to here, and it is a safe location."

"Whatever." Then what he said hit me. "Wait, you're focusing on business rather than finding me someplace to live?"

"I'm doing both." He reached into his pocket and handed me cash as the driver stopped alongside parked cars on a busy street. I could only assume that this was the center of town, not too far away from the airport, and 47 instructed me to get out, saying that he will pick me back up here in exactly 1 hour before driving off again.

"I don't know Russian," I mumble to myself, looking at the signs. Sighing and hugging myself tightly, I walk over to the window of the nearest shop and see women's clothing perched inside on racks.

I enter the store, feeling the rather thick wad of cash he handed to me.

Bringing it up to my line of vision, I realize that he handed me foreign money rather than American money, leading me to wonder just when and how in the hell he managed to get it.

Placing the money in my pocket, I note the time on the wall clock and make a mental note to stand outside when the hour hand moves forward one.

Needless to say that I walked to the coat rack first.

* * *

About 50 minutes later, I sat on the bench in front of the store he dropped me off at with 2 bags of clothes. I was already wearing the thick coat, its tag yanked off by me. I had bought two new pairs of pants and shirts, along with a pair of boots and gloves. Most of the money had been used, and I stored the rest of it in my backpack. It was a mess, trying to figure out how much everything cost and handing the cashier the correct amount. She probably took more money than what was asked, but I didn't care- it wasn't mine, and I was more than sure that 47 had enough money to spare.

I tapped my feet to the rhythm of no particular song, waiting for my ride to show. My feet made an image in the snow as I waited patiently.

A car pulled up in front of me and I squinted my eyes, looking through the tinted window to see a bald head. Grabbing my things, I opened the car door and sat inside, putting the bags by my feet.

"Hello," I greeted. "Oh, wait, what's hello in Russian?"

"Privet," he responded.

"Privet," I said, testing it on my tongue. "Okay."

We sat in silence as he drove, taking us out of the town and following yellow Russian signs. We turned left into the woods and headed on straight for about a half an hour, snow continuing to fall lightly around us. He pulled right onto a rough road before parking beside a small, wooden house.

As he got out of the car, so did I, and that's when I noticed that the wooden house looked more like a log cabin than anything. He pulled a key out of his pocket and slid it into the lock, opening the door.

The inside of the cabin seemed larger than the outside, which confused me. There was a cot in one corner of the room, a small kitchen area, a door that I presumed to be the bathroom, and a small sitting area with one table and a large chair.

He closed the door behind me as I made my way over to the table and chair and made myself comfortable. I automatically deduced that I'd be sleeping in this chair and found it rather comfortable, so I didn't complain. I put the two shopping bags on the table and my backpack leaned up against the chair.

47 walked over to a kitchen counter and placed his suitcase down on it. Reaching in the suitcase, in a pocket on top that I didn't notice before, he pulled out a small laptop and opened it up, turning it on.

I took my shoes off and brought them up to my chest, enclosing them in the purposely oversized coat as I watched 47. He looked back at me before turning around to face the computer screen again as the voice of a British woman greeted him.

From where I sat I couldn't see the computer screen and I leaned forward, trying to catch what the lady was saying, but she was speaking in a low voice. I could only make out 'mission,' 'target,' and some speak I could identify as Russian.

This must be how he receives his missions, I told myself.

Once he closed the laptop and grabbed his two identical silenced guns, I asked, "You leaving to go kill people?"

His head snapped up and his eyes narrowed. I noticed he gets angry whenever I mention him killing people. "Remain here-"

"Yeah yeah, I know the drill. You go kill people and I sit here bored to tears."

Ignoring me, he exits the cabin. I hear the sound of his car revving to life as he pulls out of the driveway.

I stand and put my new boots on, ripping off the tags. Zipping up my coat and putting on my gloves, I head to the door and wrap my hands around the doorknob before asking myself if I forgot anything. My head makes a mental checklist before realizing that I forgot my gun.

I shouldn't even call it my gun, I say to myself, walking over to his suitcase.

It doesn't belong to me, just because I killed-

I halt the thought immediately and pick up the gun, trying to forget that I ended more than 1 person's life with this. This intricate piece of metal in my hand is what brings me closer to someone like 47- a mindless killing machine.

It's not like I have any regrets about killing, though. I had to fight to save my own life, and the pricks were bad people anyway. 47 showed up late to the party, again, and my mind felt comfortable blaming me having to kill people on him.

Killing wasn't my business- it was his, and he said he would protect me and almost failed.

I check the gun for ammo and find it fully loaded. Placing the gun in the large pocket of my new coat, I thump my way back to the door in these heavy boots and exit the log cabin.

I hold my hands out, catching tiny snowflakes in my hand and watching them melt away into the fabric of my gloves. Holding my head back, I stick my tongue out, catching them and feeling like a child again.

Part of me wishes for life to be like this again- me acting my age, possibly playing with friends, catching snowflakes on my tongue and maybe even making snow angels. I don't want this life of hiding from the grid, having little to no contact with other humans and none my age and being forced to kill people. I want my life back, with my parents in our perfect home and going to the movies with Ciarra. Now the closest thing I have left of my parents is the burning image that won't escape my mind of my parents on the couch, shot dead, holding hands.

Sighing, I look around the landscape. In the distance I see a hill overlooking the woods and begin walking.

I don't even know the date, says the voice in my head. How much time has lapsed from that Friday? How much time will lapse until I get a permanent home?

I step over a log and tiptoe through a small stream, trying to keep myself dry.

Ducking under a few trees, I make it to the hill and sit down on the edge, letting my feet dangle off the 20 foot drop. The air is cold but nice to have in my lungs, and the sight is very picturesque. Taking this opportunity to relax, I lean back and lie in the snow, letting snowflakes fall on my face as I close my eyes.

What home will I be taken to anyway? asks the voice again. Would he just dump me in some orphanage and cover my tracks to make it 'safe?' Or would he put me in a foster home and my foster parents would be people he works with? What country would I be in, would I go back to school or be homeschooled, and would I ever see 47 again?

Sometimes I wonder if 47 actually cares for me like I believe he did that first night we met, or have a become a hindrance, a useless liability? Does he even like me, or does he just tolerate me until he can get rid of me forever?

A tear comes down my cheek and my breathing gets rough. This new life is so hard, especially when you haven't had time to grieve at the loss of your old one. As more tears leak from my eyes I sit up and take out the gun, unloading it and reloading it. My vision gets blurry from the tears and I wipe them away, cocking the gun. I look into the distance and aim at a tree, my finger pressing on the trigger.

The loud boom of a gunshot startles me and I jump. Birds fly out of a tree in the distance to my left and I squint my eyes, trying to locate where it came from.

I see a lump of light brown mass lying on the ground and the color red increases around it. My assumptions that it's a deer were confirmed as two hunters walked over to the carcass, their long rifles perched on their backs. They both grabbed ahold of the antlers and began dragging the body away.

Confused, I looked around for another dwelling when the color red jutted out to me not too far from the hunters' position. I figured it to be a truck on a back road and was comforted by the isolation of 47's cabin.

Clearing my eyes further, I wiped some snow off the gun's design. A quote runs through my brain: you're here for one minute, and then next you're gone. I wonder where it came from.

Sighing, I watch the trees away slightly in the breeze. Birds fly into the horizon of snowcapped mountains. Movement catches my eye and I watch little animals scuttle about.

The hunters start their truck and disappear from sight and sound in an instant.

Now, I truly am alone.

What time did 47 say he was going to be back? I asked myself. Oh, right, he didn't. He could be back any minute and I wouldn't know. I wouldn't truly care, either.

I kick my feet and hum a song. 47 must be socially inept, I try to convince myself. I don't think he knows how easy the younger generations get bored, or how they think. For a man who knows many languages and the art of killing, I don't think he has a damn clue about people. Sure, he may anticipate movements, but he'll never know how people truly think and feel. This concept is lost on him. He probably grew up in an isolated place like this with little human contact and someone to teach him assassination techniques all the time.

My mind goes off like this and I black out, wondering about 47's childhood, whether or not he grew up with his parents that trained him this way, or if he was kidnapped by this ICA and trained there. I wonder if people miss him, or if he misses people. I know I do.

I take aim at the tree again, focusing on a big blotch in the trunk. Taking a deep breath I fire, and the recoil almost causes me to deck my face. I curse to myself, chastising myself for not having a proper grip on the gun. Some snow falls off the tree so I know I hit it, and a few more birds angrily fly away.

Whether I hit the blotch or not is uncertain, though, so I don't let myself get too excited.

Focusing again- this time with a tighter grip- I fire at the same tree and watch as even more snow falls off the tree.

Before I reload I click the safety on and check how many more bullets are left-

6. I shouldn't waste them, but I bet 47 has truckloads of ammo and must waste it on target practice anyway.

I chuckle at 'target practice' and wonder who his next target is. Who was that lady that spoke to him through the computer? Is that his boss? Whom did she assign 47 to terminate? The lady who kidnapped me, who also worked for the ICA, said that they killed bad people for a living. Who determined if a person was bad or not, and who do they target? Drug dealers and human traffickers? Were these the type of people he was after right now?

"Rachel."

My heart raced and I turned around sharply, spotting 47 standing a few feet away from me. The few bloodstains on his shirt didn't go unnoticed by me. "Fuck me, you're good at being silent," I say. "Oh, wait! Private!" I smile.

He looks at me funny. "Privet," he corrects.

I scoff. "Privet! I knew that." I turn away, muttering, "Ruined it," under my breath.

"Why didn't you remain in the cabin?"

"Because normal people get bored," I state, turning my entire body to look him in the eyes again. "You can't just keep leaving me alone like that."

His eyes fall on my gun. "Why do you have a gun?"

"I just fucking said, I'm bored."

His eyes narrow. "Guns aren't toys. I don't want you having a gun."

"Oh, really? I think I should have a gun, considering the fact that the only reason I'm alive is because you left one behind in Barcelona and I protected myself with it. Did you leave it behind on purpose?"

"You will not be needing a gun as you will not have to protect yourself by violent means anymore. You can protect yourself by doing as I say and remaining in the cabin."

"What the fuck do you want me to do in the _cabin_ by myself? Go stir crazy?"

"Hand me the gun."

"Find me a home," I counter, "so I can go back to school. Or care enough to buy me a fucking TV or something, one that broadcasts in English."

"I'm sure you can entertain yourself without the use of a firearm," he says through his teeth. "Give me the gun."

"No, you don't underst-"

The air is pierced by yet another gunshot- too many gunshots in one area for my taste. Immediately my eyes go to the one in my hands and see that it hasn't been fired, but who else is here that has a gun?

I look back at 47 just as his body hits the ground and I sit there shocked. My feet push at the ground under me and I'm on my feet and standing over 47. Blood begins to pool at a hole in his torso, just under his left ribs.

"Oh my god," I breathe and sink to my knees, my hands on his wound, just as a bullet soars over my head and into the snow. I identify the sound of the bullet as a sniper from watching Parker play his video games and look into the woods.

Movement and the familiar glint of metal of a gun catches my eye on top of a tree as I can faintly make out the reload process.

Knowing that I need to act fast to save both our asses- if 47 isn't dead- I grab his right arm and drag him behind a cluster of trees. Another bullet fires and misses, but that doesn't stop me from falling to my knees from the effort of dragging 47.

I sit in the snow and gaze at 47's bullet hole panicky. I turn his body slightly but don't see an exit wound, and I realize that the bullet is still lodged in his body. I bunch up a pile of snow and put it on the wound, breathing hard, and watch as the snow immediately turns a dark red.

"Oh man, oh man," I repeat. "47?" I shake his body slightly and apply more snow.

"47? Please, wake up! You have to tell me what to do."

When he doesn't stir I put my ear to his mouth and am relieved when I hear his breathing. My hands go to his wound to apply pressure and the blood soon starts the soak through the fabric of my gloves and leaks onto the ground.

The sound of snow crunching makes me stop my heavy, panicked breathing. The leaves of the pine trees that shield us open enough in the middle so that I can see through. A man, dressed in heavy clothing. is approaching us. He looks to be wearing the clothes of one of the hunters I saw earlier, but I can't make out his face. I can, however, make out the giant sniper rifle on his back.

My hands go to my pockets for my gun and I inwardly swear when I can't find it.

Figuring I must've dropped it, I pull aside 47's suit jacket to reveal his holster. I take the nearest gun and, trying to remain silent, take the safety off, put my hands on the trigger, and point.

The first thing I see is the head of a pistol round the corner. As soon as I see the shooter's torso I fire two rounds. The culprit falls to the ground with a small cry, dropping his gun in the process.

I walk over to him; my gun still pointed at him, and kick his weapon away.

Tentatively, I kick his side just to make sure he's dead. His eyes are closed and his face is hidden behind a ski mask. When he doesn't respond, I lower my gun, put it in my pocket with the safety clicked back on, and rush back to 47's aid.

Deciding that he won't wake up- at least, not now- I wrap both arms around his chest and begin lugging him back to the log cabin.

I grunt and groan with the effort, only pausing to breathe after I make it past the small creek. Picking him up more and holding my left hand in my right for better grip, I continue to drag him back. Looking back, I see the blood trail and become increasingly worried. 47 is a big man- obviously- but that's still a lot of blood to lose. This only makes me more determined to suck it up and continue dragging his body to safety.

It takes not even 5 minutes before I reach the cabin. I place 47's body on the ground before going to open the door and drag him inside.

I locate the cot in the corner of the room and use the rest of my strength to pull him there and drop him on top. I grab his legs so that the completely lays down on it, only his arm dangling off.

Even though my arms are practically numb and shaking from the strained effort, I manage to unbutton his shirt and push it aside. I blush the entire time, wondering what he would think if he were to wake up this minute.

But I never get to go off on that train of thought as I almost gag at the sight of the wound. The bullet has pierced about halfway through right under his rib cage on his left side. It leaves behind a gory aftermath, and I know that if I don't do something soon he will die.

I look to his face, which is sweaty and paler than normal. He looks like a ghost, and not like 47 anymore. He's completely vulnerable. He's dying.

"What do I do?" I ask myself. The bullet needs to be removed and the wound needs to be stitched, but I've only played the game Operation once and I've never stitched before in my life.

I stand up and run into the small bathroom. Thankfully, there's a medicine cabinet and I open it. Inside, I grab ace bandages, a tweezer, and pause when I spot items I can use to stitch him up with. 47 being a hitman, he's prepared for anything.

I place the material on the bedside table and run into the kitchen, grabbing a rag and soaking it with cold water.

I first clean his wound with the rag, removing the excessive amount of blood from the area, and leave the rag on his stomach. Grabbing the tweezers, I take a deep breath and try to steady my hand. I adjust the tweezers to the size of the hole and go inside, watching 47's facial expression as I do. The tweezers hit something metal and my left hand widens the hole as my right hand tries to make a grab at it.

I gasp as 47 groans, shifting his body at the pain. "I'm so sorry," I say as I continue to grasp at the metal, missing frequently. When I feel I have a strong enough grip on the bullet I lift it out of the body slowly and toss it and the tweezer across the room, disgusted.

I take the rag and wipe at the wound again as 47 calms down. "Time to stitch," I whisper as a warning. I don't know if he could hear me or not, but if he could I might as well warn him in advance.

I grab the stitching tools and loop the string through the tiny hole in the needle successfully after numerous failed attempts, tying it tight at the other end. My hand is still shaking- partly from dragging his heavy body, and partly from anxiety. I take a few breaths before and wipe him with the rag again before digging the needle in. He doesn't seem to be bothered by the needle entering his body, but when I pull at the string to pull the wound closed his body twitches.

I continue stitching the hole up closed, making the incisions close to each other but careful not to run out of thread. In the end I rip off the thread and place the material back in its container. I tap at the wound with the rag but only spread the blood as it soaked up more than its fair share of blood, and unwrap the ace bandage. I awkwardly lift his body while wrapping him in the ace bandage and take the stitching needle I used to pin the bandage together.

I stand back, admiring my work but still worried at 47's ghostly complexion. I check his breathing again to find it ragged, but I'm just thankful that he's alive. Taking this moment to rest my mind and my body, my eyes involuntarily take in his naked chest. His upper body, I find, is littered in little cuts and scars, including a rather large one below where he was shot. It looks like a stitched wound to me and I'm left wondering if this is the first time he's shot or if he's used to this kind of thing.

Feeling a breeze of cold air myself, I wrap his clothes around his body leaving his shirt unbuttoned and I take off his gun holster to make him more comfortable. I rest both his arms on his stomach, fix his pillow, and slide his body more on the cot. Thankful he had the common sense to buy a thick comforter,

I wrap him in that too.

Grabbing my materials I took from the bathroom, I return them to their rightful place and wash out the blood in the rag. After running the rag under cold water and squeezing some of it out, I fold it and put it on his forehead.

My fingers drummed on my thigh-a nervous habit of mine. What should I do now? I think. I can't just leave him alone.

The couch chair that is my designated bed for the duration of my stay pops into my mind and I head over to it, testing its weight. My arms protest in agony, fed up with all the heavy lifting I had to do today, but I force them to work as I half drag- half lift the chair on the other side of the bedside table. Panting,

I set it down and place the two silenced guns on the table in case of any intruders.

I sit down in the chair and sigh, exhausted. Could the sniper have been a hitman hired to kill him? Or could he have been a worker of someone who he tried, or managed, to kill seeking payback?

My stomach rumbles and I stand up, heading to the door first to look outside.

When I don't see anyone I close it and remove my gloves, coat and boots. I rinse my gloves in the sink and leave them on the counter to dry to thoroughly wash my hands clean of blood.

The fridge offers me little food- all canned- and I open a random can and immediately dig in. It tastes like canned fruit to me and I finish it in record time. Satisfied, I head back over to the couch with my coat in hand and use it as a blanket.

47 still doesn't stir in his cot and he looks as worse as he did earlier when I stitched him up. My heart still beats fast and my hands still lightly shake as

I'm still filled with anxiety over what morning brings. What if I wake up and he's dead? It would be all my fault. If he has a car, why don't I just drive us to the nearest hospital, wherever that is? Sure I don't know how to drive, but this is a life or death situation here.

Growing interested in the idea I peak my head up and look out a window into the dark sky. There's no way in hell I'm driving now. Now, I have no choice but to sit and wait until morning.

I bring my knees up to my chest again and drop the coat on me. My head leans to the side and I watch 47's chest rise and fall slowly but surely. Eventually, my eyelids become too heavy to keep open and close.

* * *

The sun shining on my face wakes me up and I raise a tired arm to protect my eyes. Yawning, I sit up and look around the room.

I gasp as I remember 47 and I rush to his side, the coat dropping to the floor.

His face is still pale and sweaty and his mouth is open slightly. Sighing, I remove his blanket and push aside his clothes. Without wanting to fully take off the ace bandage, I remove the needle holding them together and lift it. The wound is now purple and swollen and I leave it alone and tuck him back in.

Is purple and swollen good? I ask myself, clueless. Does that mean he's healing?Or does that mean it's infected?

I almost slap my forehead dramatically. Of course! I almost forgot about infection! If this would get infected, he's very likely to die.

I scrounge through the medicine cabinet again and look for antibiotics. Finding them, I open it up and look inside- they're pills. He won't wake up so he can't take them. How else am I supposed to get them in his body?

My mind drifts to IV tubes and I wonder if I can smash this pill up and mix it with water and inject it into him. Looking in the cabinet once again I luckily find a small syringe.

I leave the bathroom and take both to the kitchen. I grab a small bowl and put the rest of the pills inside, grab a gun, and smash the 3 tiny pills with the butt of the gun. To my luck it crumbles on the first try and I run the bowl under the sink and mix it with a spoon. Using the spoon, I dump the contents of the bowl into the syringe and walk over to 47. Taking his arm in mine I easily spot a vein sticking out of his skin in the fold of his elbow and inject the liquid into him.

When I'm done I tuck his arm back under the blanket and take his rag and the syringe back to the kitchen. I wash out the syringe and soak the dried rag in cold water again. Gingerly, I walk back to 47 and place the folded rag on his forehead. He stirs slightly and I wonder if he's dreaming- and if he is, what he is dreaming about.

Again I stand beside him, clueless as to what to do next. My hand rubs the back of my head and I realize I didn't take a shower in a while.

My curiosity about what happened to the body of the shooter overcomes me and I dress myself- minus the gloves- with the promise that I'd shower when I came back.

I exited the cabin and followed the faint blood trail from 47 back to the cluster of trees where we hid. I remember the head of the gun coming around the corner and the sound of the 2 bullets exiting the gun. I stood where I believed the man should've been, but I was only met with a bloodstain.

I don't get it, I think. I shot the man right here, and he was dead. So why isn't he here?

Only a piece of cloth remained and I bent down to pick it up. It looked like it was ripped off a shirt, and the dark brown cloth was a tribal symbol that I did not recognize.

I put the cloth in my pocket, saving it, and immediately regretted not bringing my gun. What did I expect to do out here anyway? Bury the man? He isn't even here. Did an animal get him? Or...was he ever even dead to begin with? But I shot 2 rounds! Did 1 miss?

I look over to where I sat when 47 was shot and find my gun gone. This was no animal attack.

Suddenly, I was terrified. I all but sprinted back to the cabin and locked the door behind me. Never again will I leave this cabin without a gun. Or 47.

I take one of the bags with my new clothes into the bathroom with me and wash up, making it as fast as possible for fear of intrusion. Imagine if someone snuck up behind me as I was in the shower!

My new clothes consisted of a purple sweater, cargo pants, and, of course, new bra and panties.

My stomach rumbles again, demanding to be fed, and I whip out another can of fruit. I bring my backpack over and sit back on the chair, looking over 47 protectively. I finger the guns by my side and wonder if 47 is hungry. I haven't heard his stomach growl, but he sure as hell must be. He needs food, and water.

3 minutes without air, 3 days without water, 3 weeks without food can kill you.

This is day 1 of no water, and he doesn't look like he's going to be waking up anytime soon. No, he needs to be sustained by other means. We're also out of antibiotics.

This, I think, is bad.

How far away is the town? I only remember a short drive away from town- maybe 5 minutes- with big, yellow Russian signs, turning left and continuing on straight for about a half an hour, and turning right into the driveway. How far would that be on foot? 2 hours if I walked slow?

It's not that far, I reason, but I would have to make the trip tomorrow. I think

I've wasted enough of the day away already, so I couldn't go now without getting lost in the dark. Especially not with the threat of the returning sniper outside the door.

Speaking of which, I hold one of the guns in my hand for safety and throw my coat back over me. I watch the door, only getting up once to change 47's rag and sift through my photo album again. Bored, I even go through my iPod and delete songs that no longer interest me.

47 stirs next to me, shifting his body. I don't know whether this is a bed sore or if he's dreaming or not, put I adjust his pillow and blankets to make him more comfortable. Sadly, this is the only thing I can do- for today.

I eat another can before clocking in for the night, falling asleep after an hour of trying because of the anxiety that the sniper would come back while I was sleeping. But eventually exhaustion overcame me and I fell asleep.

* * *

When I woke the next morning I fell I to routine again- checking the wound (which became more purple and plump) and re-wetting the rag. I ate a little something, put on my boots, coat, and gloves and set out, locking the door behind me with 47's key.

With one of 47's silenced guns tucked in my pocket securely along with the leftover money I saved, I began my trek.

Before I began, I had made a mental checklist. I knew I needed to pass over rough road, turn left and continue on until I saw yellow signs on my right. When

I reached those yellow signs I was to continue on even further until I made it back into town. It seemed simple enough to me, but I knew it would take a while to make it even one way.

I sighed one of relief as after only 20 minutes into my walk I had ready made it past the rough road and turned right. I thought about jogging but then decided against it, for it would only do more bad than good.

In what I guessed to be an hour I saw the yellow signs and almost shouted in joy.

The sound of a car approaching killed my joy, then, and I whipped around with my hand on my gun in my pocket. The car- a SUV, so not 47- drove up beside me and stopped in front of me. The way it stopped in front of me and not behind me made me concerned.

After parking, the driver got out and left his door open as he approached me. He was a heavyset man with a small beard, beady eyes, and a puzzled look on his face.

As soon as he started slurring in Russian I began shaking my head, which made him stop. "No, no Russian," I say. "I don't speak Russian."

Now it was his turn to shake his head but continued to speak in Russian. I guess he didn't know English.

"Privet," I say, silencing him.

He cocks his head to the side in even more confusion and repeats 'privet' back to me.

"English?" I ask, pointing to him. "You speak English?" He shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. "Well, damn."

He points to me, then to the car, and make a 'turning wheel' motion with his hands.

"No," I say, shaking my head. "Wouldn't want to ride with someone I couldn't communicate with anyway. But thanks." Unable to find a way to say thanks I hold up me hand.

He gives me a thumbs up and points me to, asking if I'm okay. I respond with my own thumbs up and a nod from my head.

He hesitates before waving goodbye to me and getting in his car to drive off. I watch him turn right and sigh I'm frustration- we'd both have been going to the same place anyway.

With no other choice I turn right after him on foot, almost laughing to myself in annoyance. My feet hurt and I would give anything to just sit down again. But beyond physical anguish the thought of the sniper coming back to kill 47 as he lay vulnerable went through my head and I quickened my pace.

When I made it to the town I looked into the windows for a pharmacy. I settled for an average store selling just about anything, a Russian store equivalent to CVS.

I stepped inside and immediately headed to the medicine department. I wanted to slap my forehead again at my stupidity, forgetting I couldn't read Russian. With my only hope being the lady at the check-out desk, I walked over to her.

"Privet," I said. "Do you have anybody here that speaks English?"

Her eyebrow rose at my foreign drawl and she looked me up and down. "Nika!" she yelled, and I took that as a name. She spoke more Russian and I heard a response come from the back room. I patiently waited as a young woman with a tattoo of a dragon on her face walked into view. Her hair was messy, short, and chopped in many layers and dyed more than one color. She also looked annoyed.

The woman at the check-out pointed to me and Nika turned to me. "Can I help you?" she asked in English.

"You have any antibiotics?" I asked.

Rolling her eyes, she walked over to the medicine section, looked it over, and handed me a bottle. "Anything else, tourist?"

"Vitamins." I narrowed my eyes, disliking her attitude. She walked further into the aisle and picked up another bottle and tossed it to me.

"You done?"

"Yes," I said through my teeth. "Thank you."

"How about coming to a country after you know their language," she muttered as she walked off.

"I would've if I could've," I whisper, walking to the checkout and handing the lady a random bill. She took it, ran it through the cash register, and bagged my items. I waved my hand at her as a thanks and left the store, sighing at the rude service and the long trek back.

There were no nice men to stop alongside me asking if I needed a ride on the way back, but in a way I was grateful. When I finally had made it back to the cabin

I collapsed on the couch, relaxing.

Sliding my shoes, coat, and gloves off and placed them on the chair I walked to the kitchen. Grabbing the same bowl I used last time and the butt of my gun I smashed 3 pills from each container, completely guessing, and added water.

Grabbing the syringe and my spoon I mixed them together and placed them inside the syringe to the point there it almost overflowed.

I walked over to 47, exposed his arm, and injected the material into his vein.

After cleaning my tools and leaving the two bottles on the bedside table, I re-wet his cloth and pulled his blanket up further. Finally allowing myself to relax, I sat back down on the chair. I cracked my toes, fingers, and back before grabbing my jacket and falling asleep quickly, utterly exhausted.

* * *

47 opened his eyes and groaned. His hand went to the ace bandage around his chest near his ribs and felt pain. He sat up and sucked in a breath to keep from screaming out in pain.

He scanned the room to find himself in his log cabin in northern Russia. A blanket covered him as he lay on his cot and his shirt was unbuttoned. An ace bandage was wrapped around his body but he couldn't remember why.

Turning to his left he spots his gun holster and 1 Silverballer on the bedside table, along with two bottles- one containing vitamins and the other containing antibiotics, the writing in Russian.

He sees a girl- Rachel- lying on a chair next to the table with one of his guns in her hand as she lay asleep.

Desperately, he racked his brain for any recollection of past events- he remembered taking a quick mission to eliminate a drug dealer and heading back to find Rachel playing with one of his guns. He thinks they argued, but he can't be sure. Then, nothing.

Preparing himself, he stands up and walks over to Rachel, testing his muscles.

He notes the coat covering her body to act as a blanket, her dark eye circles- and the gun. Silently, he takes the gun from her hands, checks to see if the safety is clicked on, places it on the table and walks to the bathroom.

As he steps in he notices his pale complexion, sweat beads, and red eyes in the mirror. Slowly, he peels away the bandages to reveal a stitched wound and traces it with his fingers. It's only slightly purple and swollen but still stings when he touches it. He wraps himself again and leaves the bathroom, accepting the stitching job, and walks over to Rachel.

"Rachel," he begins, but his voice cracks. He clears it and tries again. "Rachel."

Her eyes flutter open and then she panics, looking for the gun. Her hand reaches out to grab it while simultaneously looking for who called her name. She gasps as she takes in 47 before her, bewildered.

"47?"

* * *

I couldn't believe my eyes and with the hand not on the gun I rubbed them clear.

But no, 47 still stood before me, just staring at me. He looked less pale but more sweaty, and his ace bandage was tinted red as a little blood seeped through.

"How are you feeling?" I whispered, not knowing what else to say, and placed my hand back in my lap.

"I'm fine," he answered. "What happened?"

"You got shot. It was a sniper. I, um, shot him but I don't think I killed him." The words come out rushed and I'm worried about what he will say when I mention shooting.

"What do you mean?" he inquires.

"Like, I went back yesterday to where I shot him and the body wasn't there. I don't know. It didn't look like an animal attack or anything. Oh," I say as I dig into the coat to look for the fabric, hoping that I didn't lose it. "I found this."

Once I hand him the fabric his face changes; first confused, then angry. He roughly fingers the fabric in his hands and sighs, looking towards the door then back at me. "How long was I out for?"

It takes me a few seconds to come up with an answer before I say, "About 2 days, I think."

"Did anyone else show?"

"No, thank God. Hey, um, sure you okay?" He continued to stare at the cloth and my question was asking whether or not he was okay both mentally and physically. "Hey, um, you seem really attached to that thing." He looked at me, out of his trance. "You know that symbol, don't you?"

47 hesitated before saying, "It's an enemy I long thought to be dead."

"...You're not telling me everything." Frustrated at no response, my voice grew louder. "You got shot, 47. You almost died. I freaking dragged your ass back here and stitched you up. For God's sake, I even walked into town to get supplies for you. And you can't even tell me everything?"

All he did was narrow his eyes at me, glaring into my own. After a few seconds of intense staring he turned his back towards me and walked to the bathroom.

"Holy shit," I breathe. "I can't believe you. What, is it the ICA? Another agency? Drug dealers? Something personal?"

He doesn't respond to any of my questions as he closes the door behind him.

Angry, I sit criss-crossed on the chair and grab one of his pistols. I check for ammo, spin it, then slam it closed and click the safety off. The head is pointed towards the door as the gun lays in my lap.

I can't believe him, I say to myself. I bust my ass shooting people and playing nurse for him, and he can't even tell me why? I don't even care if it's personal- it's still wrong and unjust. So, what, I continue to guard his ass and act like I don't care when he ignores me and leaves me clueless?

The sink runs in the bathroom as he washes himself off and I sit here fuming.

Minutes later he comes out clean cut- non sweaty, and his suit is buttoned. Only his eyes remain red, I note as he looks at me.

"The man you shot will most likely return to finish the job tonight," he informs me. "He will come to us."

"Mm-hmm," I mumble, giving him a taste of his own medicine.

47 fixes his glove and walks over to his holster lying on the table, he puts it on. He puts one pistol on his left one and hands his hand out to me.

"Last time you tried to take a gun away from me, you got shot and almost died and I saved our asses with that gun," I say, not looking at him.

His hand hesitates before reaching over and turning the safety on. Then, he calmly walks over to his suitcase in the kitchen.

Just to make a point, I click the safety back off in a way for him to hear it. I don't know if I heard him correctly or not, but I think he sighed.

It takes only an hour of waiting for the sky outside to turn a dark blue. I sit in my sit with my gun pointed towards the door as 47 checks the windows, locks, and walks around.

"You sure he's coming again tonight?" I instigate.

"I'm sure."

"So what, then? If you're so sure then that means you know him?" My frustration with the man escalates when he doesn't answer me, his back turned to me as he looks out the window. "Throw me a goddamn bone here, 47."

A great burst of wind interrupted me and I watch the snowflakes fly. The door to the cabin groans in protest. Then, the wind abruptly stops. It's so silent outside that I can hear my own heartbeat.

But, not for long.

A machine gun from outside spits bullets into our cabin at random. I cover my head and let out a shout of surprise. The person who is operating the machine gun doesn't let up and releases an entire magazine into the cabin. Bits of wood are torn away as goosebumps form on my skin and my eardrums pop.

After about half a minute of the relentless onslaught of bullets, the door caves as someone kicks it. 47, previously in the kitchen, walks over to the door with his gun in his hand and aims.

The door is kicked in and flown a few feet as an angry man steps in. I only figure him to be the sniper from before because he wears the same ski mask and hunter clothing as he did when he was shot.

The sniper immediately charges at 47 and swats his gun away as a bullet goes off. I stand and gasp as the two men engage in hand to hand combat.

The sniper moves to punch 47 in the face but he deflects it and attempts to bend his arm back. The sniper counters with a kick-jump to his face and 47 recoils back. The fighting goes on like this, both men brutal as hell, before I get my act together and raise my gun.

Aiming is hard as both men are quick and agile. The gun shakes slightly in my hand and the man keeps moving, never staying still for a second. I can't get an aim on him.

With swift precision the sniper elbows 47 downward with his left arm and, with his right leg, he knees him in the ribs exactly where he shot him earlier.

47 grunts loudly and falls to the floor, a pained expression on his face as he clutches his wound. I gasp as the sniper kicks him again in the same area and takes out a switchblade from his pocket, the intention of finishing his job on his mind.

With my mind made up in a flash- and no other option- I aim my gun quick and fire. But I hear no grunt or see no fallen body, and the sniper whips his head around in my direction.

I had missed.

As the sniper walks toward me, his pace quick, I try to fire again. My heart sinks to my stomach as I hear the same 'click' sound I heard in Barcelona and realize I'm out of ammo.

I don't have time to react though as the sniper seizes me by my throat and holds me up against the wall, my feet over a foot from the ground.

I yelp in surprise and drop my gun. My hands reach up in an attempt to pry his fingers from my neck and my feet flail. Tears fall from my eyes as the pressure on my neck continues and I can't breathe. One of my feet lash out in a frenzy and deck him right in the gut, causing him to grunt.

The grunt turns into a growl as he slams my head into the wall again. His switchblade comes into my line of sight only for the tip to rest against the corner of my lip. As he applies pressure I can do nothing but let the tears fall and gasp for air.

Suddenly, I fall to the ground. A coughing fit immediately seizes me and I rub my neck to try to rid the feel of his hands clasping my throat and crushing it.

I hear choking sounds and I look up, blinking the tears out of my eyes to get a clear view. Now the sniper grasps at his neck in vain as 47 ends his life with fiber wire. The gasping and grabbing eventually wane out and 47 lets his lifeless body fall to the floor with his wire still around his neck.

My breathing is still short from crying and being choked and I sit against the floor where I was dropped as 47 approaches me and kneels down in front of me. I try to calm my breathing and appear strong to 47- with his bloody nose, bruising body and no doubt throbbing bullet wound- but I can't.

"I'm o-okay," I say. I can tell he knows I'm lying- even a person with the IQ of -2 could- and he stands up, helping me up with a firm hold on my elbow.

Unconsciously, I stand so close to 47 that my body is practically squeezed into his. My arms are around my chest as I seek any comfort and safety that I can get.

We both look over the adversary's lifeless body in disgust. "Wow," I croak. "Damn. That was intense."

Tentatively, I walk over to the other side of the body as 47 goes to collect his fallen guns. In the corner of my eye I can see 47 struggle to hold in his pain and try to shrug it off as I kneel beside the corpse.

Curious as to the face behind the sniper, I reach out with shaky hands and grasp the scratchy fabric of the ski mask and lift it over his head.

A gasp escapes my mouth and I drop my throat. All my questions are immediately answered in this moment as I stare down 47. Or rather, the sniper that looks exactly like 47- only dead.

Recollecting myself, I lift my head enough to stare at 47 in disbelief. I almost want him to come out and explain why his twin would come after him and try to kill him.

All he does is look down at me, a blank expression in his eyes.

He does not speak.

* * *

**A/N: Yep so here's another chapter. This is getting harder for me as I make up new scenarios but try to keep everyone in character, including 47. There's not much dialogue in this chapter but 47 does talk more, which is a plus because he like never talks. I tried to keep everything realistic and even researched a few things but I'm really clueless when it comes to geography and medicine and stuff like that so sorry if I got anything wrong :) I tried my best. I'm not so happy with this but yeah :/ If I somehow come up with an idea for next chapter hopefully things will be explained then.**

**I'm trying to get 47 to appreciate Rachel more and what she contributes to the 'team' without him breaking character and saying thanks, because I don't think he ever said thanks to anyone before (when he's not mascarading as someone else I mean). And, obviously, there's more character change in Rachel (hopefully the reader saw what I was trying to convey) in that she does more, has regrets and moments when she messes up (so she's not a Mary-Sue character), and she even begins to develop an anxiety disorder (something I can partly relate to). To give you a better image of what I imagined her to look like, she kind of looks like-to me- a mix between G. Hannelius and Chloe Grace Moretz (I tried to find celebs so you can Google them).**

**I'm still not sure where I want to take this and how I want to develop these characters, which is really bad on my part. I'm sorry, but I'm thinking and I believe I have an idea formulating :) Any ideas/suggestions/preferences are allowed and welcomed! Just leave it as a review or PM me :)**

**Please review and tell me how I did! It means a lot and helps me get the drive to continue this story! 3**

**xoxo, **

**Me :)**


	5. Part 5

We were at a point, the hitman and I, in our relationship that we didn't need words to say what we wanted.

After that night, I didn't speak. No, I just grabbed my bag- numb- slipped on my coat and shoes and followed him again. Not knowing where I was going, what we were doing, or what was going to happen next. I didn't want to bring anything bad up- I didn't want to speak, I was so shocked- and I didn't want to further annoy him. I just got in his car with him and we left, both lost in our own minds.

We arrived at the airport again, waited silently for our flight while 47 made a call, and boarded the plane. My third plane trip in a week, might I add. But I kept my mouth closed and pretended to sleep the entire flight.

When we landed I followed him into a cab where he gave directions to the driver.

The weather was too hot for my coat but I kept it on anyway because there was no room left in my bag. I watched the passing signs and realized that we were in London, but didn't get as excited as I was about Barcelona.

Why are we here? I asked myself. Does it have someone to do with that British lady giving him assignments?

As we drove to the address 47 mentioned I looked out the window and noted the many cafes, tourists, and tight apartments London had to offer. Part of me wondered if this is where I would settle permanently, and the other part told me to not get my hopes up.

I was tired. Mentally and physically tired. I wanted sleep, I wanted to relax, and I wanted settlement with the guarantee of no violence ever again. But, see, this is too much to ask for when traveling with a companion like mine.

The driver took us a short distance away from town- a fact I noted in the back of my head with an inward laugh and sigh of relief- and stopped in front of one of the few houses in London. It was a squished, old house with maybe 4 stories if it didn't have a basement.

47 slipped the man some cash and we both got out and stopped in front of the door. He pulled the gold rung on the door and knocked twice with it.

We waited, hearing slight rustling inside, until the door opened and a woman answered. She had shoulder length red-brown hair with piercing green eyes. She wore a blouse and jeans, leaving me to wonder what occupation she had. Her eyes met 47 in a way that I took as understanding yet questioning in an old-friend sort of manner. Then, she looked at me and took me in, the significantly smaller person standing at her door whom she never met before. Then, back to 47.

"47," she greeted with a British accent. "Why don't you come inside?"

"I'm only here to drop off Rachel," he responded.

My heart leapt in my chest at the mention of my name as so many questions went through my head and I struggled not to let them come out o my mouth. Instead I just stood there by his side, unmoving, staring at the woman.

"Right, of course," she said. "Why don't you come inside, dear? I'll be right with you."

She made way for me to walk inside her home and I took in the expensive furnishings, moulding, and dark wood floor. I walked into the sitting area adjacent to the entrance and sat down on a rather comfortable sofa with my bag next to me.

The two continued to chat in the doorway and it was all I could do to hone my hearing and listen to what they were saying. I heard parts of sentences, mostly describing what had happened these past few days, myself and my current situation, and me staying for an indefinite amount of time. One particular hushed sentence from 47 caught my attention: "She's becoming the person I tried to prevent Victoria from becoming."

Well, 47 certainly does know his fair share of ladies, I think to myself. But I'm becoming a certain person he prevented a certain lady from becoming? This confused me.

The door clicked shut and the lady sighed, her head bent down and her hand sliding off the door to her side. Finally, drawing in a new breath, she walked over to me.

"Hello," she said. "Did 47 tell you anything about me?" I shook my head no.

"Well," she continues. "My name's Diana." She holds out her hand for me to shake and I hesitate before shaking it. This just makes the situation more awkward.

"So," she claps her hands together," would you like anything, Rachel?"

I nod my head. "Yes, in fact. I've been waiting days. Months, even. I want to know more about 47, and his origins."

Diana wracks her brain to try to think of a way out of this situation. Then:

"How about you get settled in first, maybe have some tea?"

"No. I've been waiting long enough. Give me answers." My voice is demanding and had a no-bullshit attitude about it, much like 47's.

Diana sighed and rubbed a hand over her face. As her hand moved back to her side, she seemed to have wiped away her defenses and looked defeated again.

"Alright," she says. "We can talk over tea and biscuits."

I got up and followed her into the kitchen, leaving my bag. I sat down at a wooden table acting as the breakfast nook with 4 chairs around it with a sigh.

Diana began pouring water into a tea pot and turned on the stove. She prepared our tea mugs and brought out a few crackers- biscuits, I told myself- onto a small plate and set them before me. All the while, she was talking.

"A long time ago," she began, "there was a man named Otto Wolfgang Ort-Meyer.

Along with 4 other major terrorists of the world, they began what was known as the 'Ort-Meyer Project.' They studied cloning and even produced some clones of their own." She drummed her fingers on the counter and refused to look at me.

"Then they had the idea to put all 5 of their DNA samples together and created...47. He was their 47th creation, and coincidentally has 47 chromosomes.

He was birthed by a surrogate mother and raised into adulthood until he escaped and killed all his 'fathers.' He went on to join the ICA." The tea pot steamed and she poured blazing hot water into our mugs and sat down across from me.

"Wow," I say, stopping her. "You're saying...47 is a clone." She nodded. "A goddamn clone."

"Yes," she whispered. "And you saw one in Russia. They were all thought to be dead, as 47 destroyed all Ort-Meyer research and killed all the remaining clones."

My eyebrows shot up. "And he's sure he killed them all?"

"I'm sure of it," she answered instead. "They must've secretly collaborated with another company and shared their research. Who knows? This is what 47 intends to find out."

"Oh, wow," I said, sitting back in my chair. 47, a clone. "I'll be damned..."

Diana rested her hand on mine in a comforting way and I looked at her. "Don't worry, Rachel. I've heard about what you been through with 47. You will never have to resort to violence ever again."

My eyebrows furrowed in annoyance and I took my hand back, remembering when 47 said the exact same thing to me. "Hmm," I grunt.

"Let's see how long that lasts." Again. "So, what's your story?"

She blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"How did you two meet?"

"I was assigned as his handler in the agency."

"You give missions to him through a computer, right?" She nods. "Hmm. How did you join the agency, then?"

Diana hesitates for a moment before waving her hand at me in a 'it's no big deal' fashion. "I got recruited because I excelled in computer science." I grunted and sipped my tea. "What about you? I haven't heard too much about you."

My mug accidentally slammed down too hard on the table. "Well, ugh...my parents died. They were murdered, I mean. By 47's enemies. After he took me to Barcelona then Russia where I babied his ass-"

"I'm sorry?"

"He got shot, he didn't say?"

"Again?" she asked, leaning forward in interest.

"A sniper got him and I fixed him up, didn't even say thanks."

"Don't take it personally, he never thanks anyone."

"Hmm," I grunt, taking another sip and speaking into my mug. "Too damn independent."

Diana licked her lips and glanced at her watch. "Victoria will be home soon."

Noticing my confused look, she further explained. "Victoria is about your age.

She was raised in the same manner as 47. Also a clone, I mean. She'll be home any minute from school now."

"She isn't homeschooled?"

Diana sighed. "I wanted her to live a normal life."

My fingers drummed on the table as I finished my tea. "How long am I staying here?"

"Until 47 can relocate you and eliminate the threats. Or, you could stay permanently."

At her last sentence I study her face, taking in her high forehead, small eyes that portrayed opportunity, and full lips set in a fine line.

Could I stay here permanently? I ask myself. Could London be the place for me?

The sound of the door sliding open catches both our attention and snaps is out of our thoughts.

"Victoria?" calls Diana.

"Yeah?" hollers back an American accent.

"Come to the kitchen for a moment, please?"

I hear her feet shuffling closer to us until she comes into full view. I'm almost shocked at her appearance as she reminds me what Diana and 47's kid would look like. She has hair like Diana's, only a darker shade, and hazel eyes. Light freckles litter her face as they do mine and her lips are thin. She wears a school uniform of the colors blue and green and her backpack is slung over one shoulder. Her thin eyebrows furrow in confusion as her small eyes meet mine.

"Who is this?" she asks.

"Victoria, this is Rachel," Diana greets. "Rachel, this is Victoria." We stare at each other, not saying hi.

"Is she...like me?" Victoria asks, her voice wavering.

"No," I answer for Diana. "No, I'm not a clone. I once had actual parents."

"Oh-"

"Rachel," Diana interrupts, "was brought to me here by 47 himself. She has been through a lot."

Victoria looks between Diana and I, but my gaze never falters. She begins to shift her feet as she grows more uncomfortable.

"How about you take Rachel into town to shop today?" Diana suggests. Now, I look at her. "I need to prepare a room for her anyway, and she must need new clothes.

Here," she reaches into her wallet and pulls out her credit card. "Go buy her new clothing, and maybe the two of you can bond."

Victoria steps forward and takes the credit card in her hand. "Okay."

"Here, let me take your bag from you," says Diana, sliding Victoria's backpack off her shoulders. "Go on, now."

I stand up and walk behind Victoria as she leads me out the door and onto the streets. After we cross the first crosswalk, I instigate the conversation. "So, ugh, you're a clone. Wow."

She glances at me from the corner of her eye. "Yes."

"And how old are you?"

"Just turned 15 recently."

"Oh, wow, happy late birthday, I guess. I'm turning 16 soon, actually. I don't even know the date, it could've already even passed. Damn."

"So, what happened with your parents?"

My mouth opens and closes as I try to formulate an answer. Well, I think, that was blunt. "They were murdered. I was going to be next but then 47 killed them and took me."

"But that's not how you met him."

"No." Now it was my turn to give her a look out of the corner of my eye as I look around, sightseeing. "No, I was working one night at a motel he happened to stay at and some agents came and blew the place up and he got me out. What about you?"

"Diana took me away from the doctors one day- the ones who created me- and some man wanted to use me, but 47 brought me back to Diana."

"Really?" I ask in shock. "I thought 47's thing was killing, not missing persons."

"He was sent in to kill Diana, but things changed."

This caught me off guard and I tripped in a crack in the sidewalk. "47 sent to kill Diana, his handler? Huh."

"She went rogue from the agency, is why," Victoria explained. After my minute silence, Victoria continues. "How long are you staying with us?"

For some reason, my brain catches the 'with us' part of her question the most- never mind her being blunt- as if Diana and she have this sort of adopted bond.

"I don't know, I'm not told anything."

We both are quite after this until we reach the center of town. "Follow me," she says as she walks into a girl's clothing store. "Go crazy."

"Oh, wow," I can't help but say as my gaze flies over the enormous amount of clothes just for teen girls in this one shop.

"You say 'wow' a lot," Victoria laments behind me.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

After about 83 UK pounds later- whatever the hell that was- and 3 bags filled with clothes, we left the shop finally. Victoria brought me next to a small cafe and we sat on one of the outside tables. A waiter came up to us and asked what we would like, and we just ordered tea.

We sat there, both sipping our teas and making occasional small talk about our lives. This is when I realized just how socially inept we both were, and I almost laughed.

In our prolonged silences, I looked around at the scenery. Many people were texting as they walked along the cobblestone sidewalks, and the cars were almost all old fashioned. A woman was screaming into her phone quite a distance away, I noticed, and a blind man walked with his dog. An old woman hung her blanket out the window of an apartment building to dry, a young couple sat outside on their balcony laughing, and a young boy walked his little dog on the streets.

I smiled inwardly as I wondered if this is how 47 saw things all the time- individually, not as a whole background. How could one even do that all the time? I asked myself. How-

I cut myself off as I noticed something strange in the distance. Ignoring Victoria's curious stare, I leaned forward in my chair and squinted my eyes to get a better view.

In the distance on top of an apartment building that was almost finished being built sat a man with a gun. I could just barely make out a sniper in the man's hands and the fact that he was bald and wore a black suit.

"47?" I whispered to myself.

Victoria furrowed her eyebrows. "What?"

I watched as the man stopped looking through the scope on the sniper, stood up, and walked away from view.

No, I thought. It can't be him. Why would he watch us from afar?

He wouldn't, said a voice in my head. That isn't 47.

The blood must've drained from my face because Victoria asked if I was alright.

Continuing to ignore her, I wondered what I should do. Should I just ignore it and not mention it, or high tail it back to Diana and report it? Because, after all, what else could I do?

"Victoria?" I asked.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Follow me."

I stood up with my bags in my hand and began walking towards the apartment building. Victoria stumbled behind me before taking a few bills out of her pocket and leaving it on the table. She jogged up beside me and asked, "Wait, why? Where are we going? Do you even know here you're going?"

"Yep," I answered. "Just hold on."

I half walked half jogged to the apartment building before walking into the alleyway on the side. The building wasn't complete, but they still had installed the fire escape stairs on the side.

"Rachel, what is it? Why are we here?" asked Victoria.

"We need to get up these stairs," I state. Looking around, I decide to stash my shopping bags behind the dumpster when no one was looking. Then, I began climbing.

"But, why?" continued the ever persistent Victoria. "Why would we go up there?"

"Because," I say, "I saw someone."

"You saw someone?" she echoed, following up behind me. "Who?"

I step off the ladder and began climbing the stairs. "Did Diana ever tell you about 47's past, his history?"

"Of course."

"So she told you that he killed all his remaining clones, right?"

She hesitated before saying, "Yes, Rachel. Why?"

"Well, he didn't kill all of them. Apparently, there are still some alive. And

I just saw one escape into this apartment building."

I stop on the last stair and turn around the face Victoria. She had also stopped, a shocked look on her face. "Wait, you saw one of his clones?" I nod.

"We have to go tell Diana!"

"No," I say, stopping her as she began to make her way down again. "No, that won't do any good. He'd get away and we'd be nowhere again, back to square one."

"Rachel, this is insane. What are you planning on doing?"

"Finding him," I say, "then going from there." And with that I step onto the roof of the building and begin walking to the door that leads inside.

"Wait!" Victoria calls, bounding up onto the roof after me. "You're going to get killed!"

"Wrong, again," I say, my hands going to my pocket to slide out my gun. My fingers click the safety off and I cock the gun. "He doesn't know I have this."

Victoria stares at the gun, a sad look on her face. She swallows hard. "I don't want to be part of this."

"Oh, please." I open the door and begin down the steps. "You're already part of this, whether you like it or not."

Victoria is silent but I hear her soon descend the steps behind me and am pleased. We walk into a hallway with mostly no walls, and construction equipment lie everywhere. The clone could be anywhere in this building, so where would we even start?

"Now," I whisper. "If I were 47's clone, where would I be?"

"This is so stupid," Victoria says in a loud whisper. "We're going to get killed."

I grip my gun harder as part of me believes what she is saying. Part of me wonders what I was thinking, chasing down a killer in an abandoned building with dangerous equipment lying around. But another part of me doesn't care if I would be killed as blood rushes through my veins at top speed from adrenaline.

We continue to walk forward a few steps, looking both left and right for any signs of a bald head. Then, suddenly, he appears before us. With ease he slides his body out of cover and points two silenced guns at us. Victoria gasps and I raise my gun, only for him to shoot it out of my hands. I hiss in pain and rub my right hand, the vibrations of the shot still running through it.

The clone takes a few steps forward and stops a few feet in front of us. His face holds an expression of anger as he glares down at us. With an accent, he asks, "Where is 47?"

I shrug. "I dunno."

After a few second of thought, he raises his right hand to his ear and begins speaking in a foreign language. Thinking it to be an earpiece, I wonder who he is reporting to and what he intends to do next. He stops talking and waits for a reply, all the while staring at us. In one move he holsters his guns and takes a few steps toward us, raising the gun above my head to bring it down on me.

I feel a gush of wind to my right and see a blur of color before me where the clone once stood. A second later Victoria and the clone were on the floor, with

Victoria on top of him with her fist raised. But before she could get any good punches in, he managed to shift his body weight so that he was on top.

Wondering what to do to help, I improvise and run over, wrapping my arms as tight as I could around his neck and squeezing while pulling him off of her. Grunting, he easily put his feet underneath him and pushed, throwing me over his shoulder and onto the ground. I gasped and opened my eyes to see his foot raised to stomp on my head and, with a rush of adrenaline, managed to roll out of the way in time and get on my feet again.

In a flash Victoria was back in action again as she ran up to him. She tried punching and kicking him but he deflected each and every blow until he managed to get a hold of her wrist, twist it, and turn his body so that she fell on the floor with a shriek.

I picked up a piece of concrete rubble by my feet and threw it at him, barely hitting him on the head with it.

His head slowly turned toward me and he began walking my way again. Panicking, I looked around the surrounding area for any weapons and saw a piece of metal pipe lying in the corner. I made a mad dash for it and just managed to grasp it in my hands before the clone grabbed me in a chokehold. In a desperate attempt for breath I tried to raise the pipe to hit the clone on his head but he caught it and took it out of my grasp, throwing it across the room. He straightened his back more so that my feet barely touched the ground as I clawed at his arms to release me.

The amount of times I've been grabbed in a chokehold and began seeing black in my short life is almost laughable. I mean, couldn't I ever get a break?

I heard a grunt from what sounded like Victoria and was dropped to the floor. My body refused to get up as I lay on the ground, looking at Victoria and the clone fighting upside down while trying to catch my breath and blink the blackness away.

I could only just barely make out Victoria getting a few good kicks in here and there then sliding under him, raising her arm into his groin. He buckled under the pain for a moment and Victoria used that time to roll toward the clone's dropped gun, turn around, aim, and fire.

The sound of the bullet leaving the gun resonated in the empty building and left my head rattling more than it already was. Sucking in a deep breath, I forced my body to my knees as I took in the sight of the clone's dead body on the floor, a pool of blood coming from the hole in his head. One glance at Victoria showed me that she was looking at the same thing, only with a pained expression on her face.

Grunting and rubbing my neck, I stood up and walked over to the dead body. After kicking it once out of pure satisfaction, I reached down and grabbed the

Bluetooth in his ear and held it up to my own. The sound of a man speaking hurried but choppy foreign language sounded in my ear before I heard static that ended the line. With nothing left to work by, I tossed the Bluetooth back down on the body and walked over to Victoria.

She was just getting up as I approached her. "Hey," I said with a croaky voice, "good j-"

She pushed my shoulders in anger and raised her voice. "No! NOT 'good job!' I just killed a man!"

I blinked in confusion. "He was going to kill you regardless. Does it really matter?"

"Yes!" she countered back, her face getting red as she threw down the gun. "It fucking matters to me! I don't want to kill people!"

I stared at her a moment before chuckling. "Honey, you need to grow up. If you think you're safe in this world and no one will go after you and try to kill you and you have to defend yourself, then you need some serious reevaluating." I walked away from her and scanned the floor, looking for my gun.

"No! YOU went after HIM! Totally different story."

"Oh, so you wanted him to trail us back to Diana? Maybe he'd have killed her too. Oh, wait, there is no maybe to it. He WOULD have killed her too." Finally finding the gun, I put the safety back on and put it back in my pocket.

"You don't know that Rachel! Why are you so okay with all of this?"

I turned back to look at her, with her arms out by her sides for emphasis and her face beet red in anger. The image of my parents' dead faces popped into my brain, with their hands clasped together, and I shook my head and closed my eyes as I tried to rid it. Tears met the brims of my eyes and threatened to fall down but I took a deep breath and bat them away. "Not the first time I've seen a dead body. Not the first time I've killed, or been in a fight before. Goes the same for you. We're both used to it by now- or at least I am." Or am I? Licking my lips, I began heading back to the fire escape stairs where we came from and said, "Come on, time to go."

Without a sound, she followed me. Once I made it all the way down the stairs and the ladder I reminded myself about my shopping bags and remembered to pick them up from behind the dumpster. Still neither of us saying a word, we began walking back to Diana's side by side until she finally spoke up.

"So, ugh...what now?"

"Now, we tell 47 about what happened."

"How do we do that? We can't just ask Diana, you know. She'd go crazy with the fact that we...you know, and she'd lock us in our rooms and not let us get even more involved."

I sighed. "Okay, then. Well, she still gives 47 missions, right? Through the computer. So what if we just searched her computer for the last known mission she gave 47 and go meet him there?"

"How do we do that?"

"I'll distract her and you go hack into the computer. You probably know more than I do about that kind of stuff, am I right?" With no response from her, I continued. "Hey, and, ugh, do you happen to know what language that man spoke into the Bluetooth?"

She crinkled her forehead. "What language? Hmm." She thought for a minute, looking down at her feet as her brain shifted into gear. Finally, she said, "I think I remember that to be Czech. I mean, I don't know Czech, I just heard it before."

"Great," I say with a smile. "That's great, good job. So now we know that they're located in Czech. We can tell that to 47, too."

In my peripheral vision I saw Victoria's back and shoulders straighten as she accepted the compliment and began to feel better. I smiled.

When we made it back to Diana's house, we gave each other a nod before we went inside. As we walked into the kitchen, Diana came out to greet us from another room, smiling.

"Got everything you need?" she asked, and I smiled and nodded. "Good. Now follow me and I'll show you up to your room."

I trailed behind Diana up the stairs, first taking off my shoes, passing by and nudging Victoria. Diana led me to a plain guest bedroom with white walls, a small closet, and plain red and white bedding on a twin size bed. My backpack lay on the pillows.

"Sorry for the bland style," Diana apologized. "Maybe if you stay longer than a few days you can decorate it how you like."

Don't worry, I think. I don't plan on staying long.

But I smile and say thanks, sitting down on the bed. As Diana turns to leave I stop her by saying, "Wait." She turns around to look at me.

Think, Rachel, think, I chant. Distraction.

"Ugh, so...what's the plan? Am I like, just going to stay in this house for the next few days while 47 thinks?"

Diana sighed. "I'm sorry, I don't know sweetie. All I know is that 47 is trying to find you a permanent home, and he's trying his best."

"Will it be here in London, do you think?"

"Could be anywhere in the world. But, I mean, in a place that is comfortable and that speaks English."

"Will it be a foster home or an orphanage?"

"Well, I don't know anything for sure, but I bet you he'll bring you to one of his contacts. He's brought you here, right?"

"Right," I agree. She smiles and begins walking out the door again. "Wait! What about, um...school. Yeah, what about school?"

"Well, for the time being, you could go to school here if you like. You're in grade 10, is that right?"

I nodded. "What is it like there?"

Diana shrugged. "Well I don't know that, you'd have to ask Victoria. She seems okay with it."

I wonder how long it takes to hack into a computer, I think to myself as I wrack my brain for more distractions. I've never distracted anyone before, and so far

I suck at it. "What's the date? I haven't known the date in a while actually. I think my birthday is soon."

"It is... February 17th. Why, when's your birthday?"

"March 12th. So it is soon."

Diana stood in the doorway, biting her lip as she tried to think of what to say.

Finally, she said, "Well, if you're still here by that time, then we can celebrate. You will be 16, after all."

"When's Victoria's birthday?"

"Sometime in December, she said. She didn't specify. Is there, ah, anything else you need?"

I play with one of the bags of clothes I bought on my bed and think. "Can I use your bathroom?"

Diana nodded. "Sure, right this way..."

I grab one bag and follow her down the hall. The cold, wooden floor triggers the memory of walking with 47 through the halls of the building I was taken to when I was kidnapped, and I walk a little closer to Diana. She brings me to a blue door and opens it, showcasing the large granite bathroom.

I thank her and walk inside. As I close the door behind me, I see Victoria walking down the hall in the opposite direction and my body releases the built up tension. Even though we're all girls and I doubt anyone would come in, I lock the door anyway, use the toilet, turn on the hot shower and begin undressing. I take out a new long sleeved dark blue shirt, a pair of gray sweatpants, socks, and underwear and bra. Before I go in I look in the mirror and noticed my disheveled appearance- messy, greasy hair, dark eye rings, pale skin, and lifeless eyes. I get a little self-conscious and run a hand through my hair, only to be taken aback when some of my hair falls out. Taking a deep breath, I enter the hot shower and try to relax, but I couldn't ignore the hair on the bottom of the shower.

Once done I get out and get dressed in my new clothing after ripping off the tags. I look under the sink and grab a hairbrush to brush my hair back in a bun.

The small pink scar from when I was grazed with a bullet is clearly visible and it reminds me to my shin when I was grazed in Barcelona. One quick look at that wound and I'm greeted with a large purple scar. Sighing, I put my old clothes in the bag and leave the bathroom.

As I walk back to my bathroom I notice the light in my room is on. When I walk in I stop by the doorway to see Victoria sitting on my bed, leaving against the bed frame with my backpack next to her and my open photo album in her hands.

When her eyes raise to meet my own disapproving ones I lean against the doorway.

"What, are you doing?" I ask.

"Why did you cross out their faces?" she asks innocently.

"Because they're dead."

"Don't you want to remember their faces?"

The haunting image of their dead faces and held hands pop into my mind again. "I've got an image that sticks, trust me."

"Did they kill your brother, too?"

"No, actually. He killed himself long ago."

"Why?"

"His demons won." After a moment of silence I start walking towards her and throw my bag on the floor. "You have no right to go through that."

"I know," she responds. "I just wanted to know more about you. You certainly asked Diana about me."

"You know what you are told," I hiss and snatch the book from her, slamming it closed and putting it back in my backpack. "Now get out of my room before I make you, clone."

Her face contorts to her anger but she calmly gets up and leaves my room, stopping in the doorway only to turn around to me again. "The last mission she gave him was for tonight, actually." I look at her. "The target is a museum director, and the museum is close."

"What time is it?"

"It's 8 o'clock."

"When does Diana normally fall asleep?"

"Around 9."

"Then we leave at 9:15. I'll meet you by the door then."

Pivoting her feet, she turns and leaves my room.

Sighing angrily, I sit where she sat on my bed to find it warm. Realizing she must've been here a while, I get even angrier. So she went through all my things, I think, and comes across my photo album as if she owns everything?

After a moment's thought, I take out the photo album, place it on my lap and begin sifting through it.

Why don't you just throw it out? asks a voice in my head.

Because you want to remember, says another voice.

The corner of my mouth turns up into a half smile as I look at the pictures of me growing up and see how much I've changed. There are pictures of me before age 6 taking dance classes and constantly smiling, then pictures of me after age 6 switching to soccer instead of dance and hardly smiling. Then my friends came along at age 10 and brought the smile back on my face. I don't even bother looking at the last few pages of the photo album and I put it away again.

A quick look at the time tells me it's only 8:14, and I still have a lot of time to kill before leaving. I decide to slide my shoes under my bed and hang up my clothes in the closet, just to give me something to do, but this only takes me about 20 minutes and I'm stuck sitting on my bed again.

Looking to my left I spot a landline sitting next to a digital clock and I pick it up. Not knowing exactly what I'm doing, I find myself dialing Ciarra's phone number. My heart quickens and my chest tightens as I hear the phone ringing, ringing, until I'm left at voicemail. Gulping, I clear my throat and prepare myself to leave a gutsy message.

After the tone, I say, "Hey...Ciarra, it's me. Rachel. Just wanted to call to say that I'm doing fine and everything. Sorry to cancel the movie date, haha. I'll rain check you on that if you like... Please, talk to me. I miss you. I

miss-" I'm cut off by another beep and I curse all phone companies for not allowing me to leave a longer message. I hang up the phone and bring my knees to my chest, resting my chin on them. Closing my eyes, I wonder if what I did could have serious consequences. Then I wonder if I even care. It seems anything I do nowadays could be left with serious consequences. If all odds are against me, maybe I should just let them win. Just like my brother did.

My mind drifts to Victoria and I wonder about her motives. She probably heard me ask about her birth date and thought I was asking about her, and she wanted to get even. She is a competitive and jealous one, I presume. She also seems strangely attached to Diana and asks about family too much. Plus, she's naive enough to think that her violent streak has ended. I have myself a little chuckle at that and look at the time- it's almost 9.

I slide off my bed and look out my door to see Diana headed up the stairs. She sees me and smiles. "You should go to sleep soon honey, you look tired."

"Yeah, I think you're right. Goodnight Diana, and thanks for taking me in."

Her smile almost reaches her eyes. "You're welcome dear, anything to help, okay?" I nod and she turns around, walking to her room and closes the door behind her.

Telling myself to take my time and go slow, I walk into my room and sit down on the bed. Taking my advice, I tie my shoes slowly and slip my gun in one of the pockets of my sweatpants. My hand waivers on the light switch as I contemplate taking my backpack before shaking my head no and switching it off. I walk over to my bed and lean on it as if I'm getting in it and tiptoe my way out of my room and downstairs.

Victoria is already waiting at the door in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, similar to me. Her eyebrows raise to ask me if I'm ready and I nod. With caution she opens the door and we escape into the city with barely a sound.

A rush of adrenaline goes through my body as the cold air blows my hair back. I don't recall ever sneaking out before, especially in a situation like this when a clone could just come out of nowhere and kill us.

I chuckle to myself as the word 'clone' can just roll out of my mouth like any other word, and I realize that I haven't really even thought about the fact that people have created such sophisticated, killing clones in modern day technology.

I've never really took my time to appreciate, or fear, that.

Victoria leads me into the center of town again and hails a cab. She leans forward and asks if the driver, who is on the other side of the car, could 'please do us the favour of taking us to Museum of Natural History.'

"You know they're closing soon, right, ladies?" the man asks us.

"Yes," responds Victoria. "We're meeting someone."

The man shrugs and begins driving. No one talks as we look out the windows as the people fly by us. I try to take mental pictures of London as I know I could leave at any given moment. Be it leaving the city for another or leaving the

Earth, I don't quite know.

It takes us not even 20 minutes in London traffic before Victoria leans forward and gives the man his money and we exit the taxi cab. We stand before what looks like a castle to me and its all I could to do prevent myself from gaping like a tourist when Victoria asks, "So, where is he?"

"Well, it's about closing time, right? So I'm guessing he wants to 'complete his assignment' around that time so he can leave like everyone else into the dark. I don't really know, actually. He usually blends in with crowds, right? So he'd exit with everyone else. Now, we wait."

I plant my butt down on the cold steps and keeps my eyes glued to the exit door, which few people are coming out of. After hesitation Victoria sits down next to me.

"How much do you know about 47?" I ask.

"Diana used to always talk about him, when they first worked together. I know a bit about him and how he handles missions and such, but not much else."

"How much do you know about where you come from?"

She glares at me. "Look, I don't know what your problem is or why you hate me-"

"Woah, woah- I don't hate you! I'm just curious is all. I mean you pretty much know what I looked like when I was a baby, and you won't allow me this?"

She shakes her head. "I don't really know anything. It's all a blur of doctors."

My eyebrows furrow. "Oh, wow, that's horrible. I'm sorry."

She goes back to looking at the exit and I do too, an awkward silence enveloping us.

How strange is it to not remember a thing about your past, I ask myself, but to remember everything you've been taught?

I don't get to work off this thought before Victoria perks up beside me. I squint my eyes to see what she sees before I recognize the suit and stand up, Victoria rising to her feet beside me.

47 walks out of the building and adjusts his famous red tie with his famous gloved hands, following in with a group of people. He still wears the same emotionless look on his face, and I can't help but relax at the familiarity.

"How do we get his attention?" Victoria asks in a hushed whisper beside me.

When 47 gets close enough, I yell, "Hey, 47!"

His face instantly shoots up in my direction in slight surprise before it turns to anger again. I almost laugh- he's always angry.

It's hard to contain my excitement as he walks toward us, partly for giving him information he needs that I got myself and partly because, in a strange way, I missed him.

I'm the one who talks first and I sum up the confrontation with his clone, about Czech, and about not mentioning anything to Diana. Victoria stands awkwardly beside me, looking at the ground when 47's gaze falls on her after I mention who killed the clone. When I'm done speaking, I say, "So that's why we need to go to

Czech."

47 stares disapprovingly at us for a moment as I see guards rush into the museum in the background. Finally, he says, "I need to get you back to Diana."

"Why?" I ask.

"To keep you safe. You shouldn't have gone after him." Victoria swats me on my arm but I ignore her. "Come with me."

As he walks back to his car we have no choice but to follow him. "But...I am coming with you, right?" I ask.

Without saying a word he leads us to a small, silver car and opens the back door for us. Victoria slides in but I stand there and stare at him, demanding an answer. I almost want to curl up in a ball under his gaze but instead I return one back to him.

"You cannot come with me," he says, and turns his head to the entrance of the museum as we hear shouting. He puts his hand on my back and all but shoves me in next to Victoria, slamming the door behind us and getting in the driver's seat.

As he starts up the car and drives away I start up my mouth again in disbelief.

"Wait, why can't I come? I mean if it weren't for me you wouldn't have gotten the information you did today."

"It's too dangerous," he warns.

"Yeah, well, no shit it's going to be dangerous. I've had my brush with danger many times. I've...killed people. You...can't just leave me here."

"You cannot come, enough talk now."

With a scoff I sit back in my seat and look out the window, shaking my head in disbelief. After all I've been through with him- for him- he can't even take me with him? What does he think I am, a nuisance? That much of a liability? As if I hadn't pulled my own weight- at his weight- back in Russia, or Barcelona, or, hell, even here?

I dig my nails into my hand, a nasty habit I have whenever I'm angry. I'm left fuming in the backseat at a loss for words when we pull up to Diana's house.

Victoria gets out without hesitation but 47 has to open my door for me, since I still didn't want to leave. I angrily push past him and walk inside the house, sitting down next to Victoria on the couch.

47 closes the door behind him and looks around before Diana turns on the stairway light and walks halfway down the stairs. "47?" she asks.

47 gestures to us. "They snuck out," he sums up.

Diana, looking shocked, walks down the rest of the stairs and looks at us.

"Oh...but how?"

47 walks closer to Diana and they talk again in whispers, he no doubt explaining what I told him and saying that he'll be off, without me, to Czechoslovakia.

Meanwhile, Victoria whispers, "I told you this wouldn't work."

"Shut up before I hit you," I whisper back.

"Dare you."

I don't respond as I watch 47 leave through the door, again, and Diana walks over to us.

"Victoria?" she asks nicely, but anyone can tell that she is in no mood to play games.

"Victoria killed a man," I chime in.

"She made me!" she yells. "I didn't want to but she made me go with her and then we were attacked, and...you know..."

"Oh, so, I made you climb those stairs?" I ask.

"Yes! I wanted to make sure you were..."

I soften a little at her notion but I still say, "I can handle myself, clearly."

"Clearly," says Diana. "You should both be in bed. It's near 10:30 and you two have school tomorrow. Plus, you should never feel the need to sneak out again.

Just come to me next time. Victoria, I do not like that you helped. And Rachel,

I do not like that you gave Victoria no choice."

"If it weren't for me, then where would 47 be on the case?"

"47 can handle himself, dear."

"Yeah, so can I."

"47 and I are trying to protect you, and you're making it very hard when you go out into danger like that."

"I have a gun," I say, but clam up and instantly regret the words that came out of my mouth.

Stupid, I think, stupid.

Diana cocks her eyebrow. "Oh, you do? Hand it over." She holds out her hand.

"But-"

"Now."

"But it's not yours-"

"Rachel-"

"And you're not my mom- my mom's dead."

"Rachel." Sheepishly, I reach into my pocket and hand over the gun. "Thank you.

Now, until 47 gets back- if he ever does- we are going to play it safe. This means no guns, no weapons of any kind, no running off into danger, and if danger comes to you, you tell me right away. Is that clear?"

"Yeah, whatever. Jesus." My head goes into my hands and I rub my fingers through my hair. "This is unbelievable."

Diana thinks for a moment before saying, "Victoria? Why don't you run along to bed and Rachel and I can talk."

The seat lightens beside me as I hear the clone walk upstairs only for Diana to sit next to me. My head is still in my hands as I try to fight back tears of frustration. I can almost feel Victoria's nosy presence as she listens in undoubtedly.

"You know," begins Diana, adjusting her robe, "we never talked about Russia."

I know where this was going and sigh, playing along and using this moment to try to vent some anger. "Ugh, there's not all that much to say. 47 left on a mission you gave him- what was that, by the way?"

"The target was a human trafficker."

"Oh. So anyways, I was bored and went outside and sat down until he came back- surprisingly quick- and he was saying the same things you were. That I should have a gun and stuff." Now I'm looking down at the floor, recalling the events.

"And a sniper shot him out of nowhere and I dragged him to cover. When the sniper revealed himself I shot him, or at least I thought I did. I mean, he was down, so I dragged 47 back to the cabin where I somehow managed to get the bullet out of him and stitch him up and put a bandage around him. And for like 2 days I injected penicillin or whatever into him and even walked like an hour into town to get it. And he wakes up, doesn't tell me anything or even say sorry."

Diana chuckled. "Don't take that too personally, 47 isn't really...like that."

"And then this other clone comes barging into the door, damn near knocks 47 out, and almost freaking chokes me to death but 47 kills him. I only find out from you, though, that it's a clone. No, 47 can't ever tell me a goddamn thing."

"I think he's just trying to protect you."

Unbelievable frustrated, I stand up and begin to walk to my room. "You know what? It's just whatever. Past is past, I guess 47 can do whatever the hell he wants and not even thank me for what I've done. Goodnight, Diana." And with that

I storm up to my room, managed to not slam my door shut, slip my shoes off and crawl into my bed. I didn't fall asleep for an hour.

I awoke to light shaking and Diana softly calling my name. "Rachel, dear? You said you wanted to go to school? Time to get up."

I moaned a response and opened my eyes, slowly sitting up in my bed to see Diana standing up. "Ugh, what time is it?"

"It's 6:30. School starts at 7. I figured since you took a shower last night and you needed your sleep..."

"It's fine." I rub my eyes and yawn. Jesus, was I right to go back to school?

"You can borrow one of Victoria's uniforms. I asked her and she's okay with it."

"Okay, thank you. Hey, Diana? Where's 47?"

"Well, 47 went to check out your lead in Czechoslovakia. I'm sure he's fine."

Once she leaves the room I follow her, and she points to a door which I can only presume is Victoria's room before she heads downstairs.

I knock on the door lightly and open it when I hear Victoria beckoning me inside. She looks up only to say, "Oh, you." She's standing in front of her mirror as she puts on the last finishings of her uniform.

"Diana said that you could loan me a uniform," I simply state.

"Uh-huh." She walks over and almost tosses the uniform, still on its hangers, into my chest.

I decide to stay longer and tease her. "So, you're going to walk me to school?

Hold my hand, hand me my lunch, kiss me goodbye?" I laugh when she slams the door in my face and head to my room to change.

I look like a Brit, I think to myself after I put on the uniform. And I hate uniforms.

I go downstairs to see Diana handing Victoria her lunch. Diana sees me and smiles, saying, "Rachel, hi. You just look dashing. I have your lunch here. Oh, and here's a notebook and a pen so you can write down what you need for class, if you're serious about this. I have you registered regardless and you can just go to the front desk."

"I am," I say, taking the lunchbox, notebook and pen awkwardly in my hands.

"Goodbye, Diana." I smile but inside my heart aches, remembering that one Friday when I came home to my dead parents. I didn't even say I loved them before I went to school. "Thank you for all that you've done for me," I say. My anxiety builds up and suddenly I don't want to leave, for fear that she'll die before I return.

"Oh, you're welcome. Have a nice day."

I swallow my anxiety and follow Victoria out the door and along the streets.

Soon enough, we stand before another large, old looking building that serves as the school.

When I walk inside Victoria abandons me to go to her locker without word, and I manage to find my own way to the office. I explain to the office lady my situation and she prints out my schedule- apparently my last name is Foxen now- and has someone walk me to class.

As almost all school days, mine was more than awkward. I forced myself to ignore the stares and whispers of the new girl as I tried to sweet talk the teachers into letting me sit in the back of the class and observe. It turns out British high schools are just as worse as American ones- or at least the students are as nasty and gossipy as in America. By the end of the day I'm sure I had many rumours circulating about me.

All day, I couldn't help but think of 47. I barely paid attention in class as I couldn't bring myself to care. Was he in Czech now? What was he doing? Did he already find the headquarters? Was he already strategizing a way in?

I could almost imagine him straightening his tie after he massacred the other clones and leaving the facility before burning it down. Now, wouldn't that be a sight to see? Too bad he left me here.

But what if he hasn't found the headquarters yet and he was still looking?

Wouldn't they send another clone to finish the job? My mind went back to the image of the clone about to knock me over the head and suddenly I'm overcome with the realization that he wasn't trying to kill us, at least not right away.

He was going to capture us to use us as leverage to get to 47. What if they sent another and he had Diana now, and he was forcing her to contact 47?

My fingers drummed on the desk as I waited and waited for the classes to go by so that I could get back to Diana's and check on her. I could barely eat my lunch as I was too struck with guilt for leaving her alone. I was so stupid for going back to school. What exactly am I going to be when I'm older? I don't even know for how long I'm alive.

Some pressure is relieved off my chest as the final bell rings and I catch up to Victoria already walking home. The entire walk is silent but as soon as I see the house I begin running towards it, earning a "What are you doing?" from Victoria.

The door flings open and I call, "Diana?"

"Yes?" comes a voice from her office. I follow the voice to see her sitting at her computer with bookcases near suffocating the room. But most importantly, there are no clones. I breathe a sigh of relief as Diana turns around in her chair and walks toward me. "How was your first day?"

"Oh, ugh, it was fine. Thanks."

"Where's Victoria?"

"I'm here!" she called from the background. The sound of footsteps on the stairs soon followed.

Diana narrowed her eyes at me. "You okay, Rachel? You seem a little...off."

I nod. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine, totally."

"So," she begins, clapping her hands together, "I was thinking that we'd go out for dinner tonight. Just you, Victoria, and I. Sound good?"

"Sounds great, yeah. When?"

"I was thinking 7 o'clock."

"Great."

"Tell Victoria and wear something nice."

"Okay," I say as I leave the room. My body is still tense as I walk up the stairs as I was just so sure that the clones would come again. Why aren't they here yet? Are they planning something else, is that it?

After I tell Victoria I go back to my room and place my things on the bedside table. Sighing heavily, I lie down in my bed and close my eyes. I try to will myself to relax and let all those bad thoughts go, and slowly I can feel the beat in my chest begin to slow down until I slip into sleep.

When I wake up, I roll over and look at the time. It's about a half hour to 7

o'clock, and I stretch. Getting out of bed, I look in my closet and pick out a nice green sweater and some dark blue jeans. I change into those and put my worn sneakers back on as I head to the bathroom to fix my hair. Once I looked acceptable to myself, I went down the stairs. Looking over the railing, I see Victoria fixing Diana's collar to her jacket. They're both smiling and laughing, and Diana even leans down and kisses Victoria on the forehead.

My heart tightens up at the sight, partly because I missed my own parents deeply, and partly because I felt so out of place as I rushed in on their family and invaded their comfort zones.

Awkwardly, I descend the rest of the steps and clear my throat. They both look over at me and I crack a half smile and announce, "I'm ready."

"You look nice," says Diana, who wears a jacket over her black dress. Victoria is wearing a black skirt with a red embroidered top. I have never felt so out of place in my entire life.

I offer a mere 'thanks, you do too' before following them out the door and to Diana's small car.

We clamber inside, me in the back seat, and Diana begins to drive to a place she describes as a 'very quaint' restaurant with 'brilliant food' and the people there are just 'dashing.' She had me at brilliant food.

Diana parked the car in the parking lot and we got out, walking into the restaurant and waiting only 10 minutes for a table.

I couldn't help but feel my eyes drift to every corner of the restaurant as I took everything in. To be honest, I don't know what I expected to see. I just had a feeling that something very bad was going to happen very soon, and I was getting antsy about it.

Diana must've noticed because she kept one eye on her menu and one eye on me and

I glanced around. Finally, she said, "Rachel?"

"Yes, hmm?"

"Have you figured out what you would like yet?"

"I'll have the steak," I say, even though I haven't even looked at the menu in my hands yet. But I went by my belief that every restaurant had steak, and was proven correct when Diana nodded.

"I'll have the pork," said Victoria. "Please."

I made a sound similar to a quick laugh that was barely contained in my closed mouth at her added 'please' and my lips quivered to hide a smile.

We kept silent until the waiter arrived and Diana placed our orders. We sipped water as I listened to Diana and Victoria talk about school, my eyes looking over the restaurant but my mind going through memories of me with my parents.

Our food arrived surprisingly quick- I expected it to arrive in half an hour or so, seeing how the restaurant was packed. I dove in immediately nonetheless, starving, and I tried to ignore the paranoid assumption that they may have even tried to poison the food. I tried to make myself relax a bit as I answered short questions amongst my group.

"So, how long's she staying?" asked Victoria. "Any news?"

"I haven't heard a thing from 47 yet," answered Diana.

"He's off in Czech," I begin. "Without me. Following my lead."

"Do you think he's found them already?" asked Victoria.

"I don't think it would happen that suddenly, no," says Diana. "It may take a few days, or weeks, to even locate them. And then a few more days to infiltrate."

The door to the restaurant opens and I nearly break my neck to look at whoever opened it. I only relax as I see a young couple walk in.

The sound of a glass being all but slammed down on the table gets my attention and I snap my head back to see Diana staring into my eyes disapprovingly.

"Rachel," she begins again. "Know this. No one is going to come to harm you, or us. You can relax knowing the situation is under control. We can handle this."

I feel a bit intimidated but I shake my head no. "No, you don't understand. They're going to come back and come back harder."

"Even if they do, I will do everything in my power to prevent you and Victoria to coming to any harm. It is alright. Now, we are going to enjoy this meal without any talk of 47 or the agency or any of that. Peace, Rachel."

We sit silent for a moment in our own thoughts before a waiter comes up to us, his head tilted downwards and his cap hiding part of his face. "Excuse me," he says in a deep voice. "Our manager would like a word with you three in the back for a moment, if you'd be so kind as to follow."

We looked up at his face and the familiar prominence of cheekbones and his set jaw and our eyes widened. The clone was disguised as a waiter.

Immediately I look at Victoria, who stares shocked at him, and then I turn my gaze to Diana who stares back at me. The corner of my mouth turns up in a smirk and my eyes glint in a way that says 'I told you so.' I find myself too happy to even be afraid.

I see her clench her jaw but she nods, taking with her her purse as we stand up and follow the waiter. He leads us through a solid gray door and through a hallway. We walk past an entry way into the kitchen with no door, only to find the entire staff laying on the ground in their own blood pools, either with a slit on their neck, a bullet hole in their head, or a knife in their chest.

As soon as we walk past, Diana fiddles in her purse for a quick second, causing the clone to turn his head at the noise. Out of her purse and in her hand materializes my pistol that she took from me and she aims it at the back of the clone's head and fires a single round.

He drops like a sack of potatoes and Diana shoves the gun back into her purse, turning to us and muttering 'follow me' as she leads us back into the restaurant. Some diners show a confused look on their face at the sound of the gunshot but other oblivious guests continue to laugh and talk their way through their meal.

Diana hurriedly leads us back to her car, ignoring the stares of the diners as we exit without paying. We rush into the car as she starts it and we pull away, out of the parking lot.

Diana manages to expertly maneuver her way through late night London traffic until we are back on her street. Through the tall buildings we can barely see the smoke cloud pouring out into the air and the bright light source coming from the buildings.

Loud sirens blast our eardrums and we see policemen and firemen huddled in a large ground outside where Diana's building should be.

We don't even have to park the car and get out to know what happened, for we, or at least me, already saw this coming.

Diana's home is on fire.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry this took so long, I've actually had it done now for about a week or two but I just haven't gotten around to posting it and revising it. A lot of things are going on and ever since school started I've been balancing 7hr school with all honors classes to boot, and then like a 3hr break before I need to go to work. My anxiety is getting worse too :( But yeah I do really enjoy writing for you guys and I hope you enjoy what I write! I will try to write more often but no guarantees, sorry.**

**I left this as a cliffhanger and chapter 6 should be coming out soon. There probably won't be many chapters left though, so beware!**

**Read and review please, it means a lot! And thanks for sticking with me! :D**


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